"Mm."
Mirror's expression is very carefully neutral. She neither smiles nor frowns, performatively or otherwise, and does not even allow herself to appear contemplative. Absorb the compliment, do not deflect. Do not chew on it. Do not even consider it. It is an exchange with no assignable value. The acknowledgment of difficulty, and the determination to find a positive angle. The offer of quiet against the obvious desire to continue talking.
It is this last observation more than anything that drains the fight from her. She sinks into the couch and meets Slate's gaze before stretching her neck to observe the hangar through a window.
"It wasn't bad," she says, "As these things go."
She reaches behind her for a datapad, then flips it around so the screen is pressed into her lap. Her brain stubbornly pushes forward the obvious counterargument: that the shot was no kind of impressive at all because only a useless dipshit would have even needed to attempt it in the first place. She crushes the thought between her teeth as she reaches behind her a second time and pulls free a stack of creamy yellow paper. The discussion is over. That is her way of saying 'thank you'. For disagreeing with the assessment in the first place.
Mirror brushes the smooth but slightly curling surface with her fingers. She sniffs at the tip of an ink pen and sighs as the sensations sink into the core of her being. Hybrasil knew two basic kinds of manufacturing techniques, the [Path of the Hand] and the [Path of the Land]. They each amounted to what Zaldarians would call 'pointless' and Terenians would refer to as 'light industry' and 'agriculture', respectively. Mecha were built by [Path of the Hand] techniques, as were the deep space colonies her people inhabited to better walk the stars that lived between the jump gates. In fact, most everything on those colonies was produced this way; there simply wasn't enough space to maintain the appropriate and balanced ecosystems it required to grow homes and materials using [Path of the Land] techniques.
It meant that spacer cats were expected to be proficient in the use of digital goods, as these were cheap and space efficient. The pile in her lap amounted to a decadent treasure, something that could never be used for anything as transient or ultimately pointless as a hobby like the one she was about to indulge in. In fact, these pages were a gift from her mother, years and years ago. Only a tiny handful of pages on the stack were still clean, and she'd felt obliged to fill every last corner and crevice on both sides of piece before she was willing to move onto another one. And however useless or outdated the ideas she painted had become, she kept every single one of them.
It was simply... necessary, sometimes. To be able to feel her ideas in physical form, but while they were still ideas. She was not, of course, much of an artist, but--
"Oh, sketching today Boss?"
"That is correct."
"Need me to clear out?"
"Unnecessary. The company is appreciated."
"Even though you never talk when you work?"
"I can smell you. Isn't that enough?"
Slate blinked.
"Mind if I watch, then?"
"Don't you fucking dare."
"Right right," her chief mechanic replied with a quiet sigh, "I'll be here. Lemme know if you need me to translate any schematics when you're done with 'em."
Mirror did not reply. Her pen was already busy scratching out small ideas at the four corners of this fresh sheet of paper. Her finger automatically flipped through the stack at the corner. After this one filled, there would be... three more. Ever. Melancholy. She allows that frown to flash across her face to hide the look of guilt that was trying to pierce her mask instead.
Slate had never made the connection between Mirror and Mayze Szerpaws. Using paper (paper!) on a secret project directly in front of her partner without allowing her in on the secret felt recklessly indulgent. Her pulse raced faster and faster until spots started swimming across her vision. That was no good. She whipped her long tail against the couch cushions until the energy expenditure caught up with her heartrate. Better. Now she could get to work.
To repeat, it was not necessary to be a good artist to be a fashion designer. Or, for that matter, a mecha engineer. Most of the concepts for the Nine Drive System were sketched out across the lump on her lap just this second, and it would be surprising if any of them were legible without long minutes spent deciphering them. All irrelevant. What mattered was closing possibility space. Communicating the broad strokes of a shape so that when she did the real work later there would be something for her computers, her techniques, and her mind to slide overtop of. Like this, she would be committed. She could trust that the ideas were real.
Task One: Adriana Ter--
"NMnnnnnnrn." Mirror tapped the back of her pen against the page with obvious frustration.
"...Sure you don't want me to help?"
"Selin. Shut up."
No word of reply followed. Mirror nodded to herself; the lack of any indication of a door opening or closing was message enough.
The true Task One had nothing to do with Mayze's new clients and everything to do with a total dearth of inspiration. It was all well and good to declare to the world that a person could be clothed in flowers, but there was a, a, a, a, a gap. Between the communicated concept and these orders. 'Grow a dress'. That was the expectation. The understanding. That wasn't what she... she hadn't intended to say...
Her pen lifts. In the upper left corner of the paper, she traces an outline of the powerful and moderately imposing figure of Adriana Teresio. In the end it was irrelevant. There was pushing the boundaries and there was paying the bills. It was not necessary to do both at once, and foolish to attempt the former every time she set out to create. The pieces would be unique, she would make certain of that much. Something unseen in all the universe, yes. Something that put forth effort to fulfil the promise of her, of Mayze's fashion show.
But it would not, could not be transcendent. There was no room for that when what everyone wanted was flower dresses. Fine then. Fine then. They did not understand. Fine then. They did not. Not understand. Fine then. The challenge was giving them what they wanted. What they wanted. And what they, what they, what they...
What they deserved.
Adriana Teresio. Queen of the Terenius Consortium, requesting something in roses. "Beyond the typical theatrics." A challenge, as she'd already identified when she first read the order. The Queen thought she sensed weakness in Mayze Szerpaws. Utter buffoonery, for a Terenian to think they understood what the 'theatrics' of any plant were, as if they had devoted any aspect of their culture to reading the stories of and listening to the plants and trees and flowers instead of simply learning how to cut them all away.
Well. She would learn then, wouldn't she? An entrance was sought, an entrance would be had. Powerful women were always favorites of many of the core goddesses, and what better way to show her Quality than by presenting herself for marriage and entry into the Grand Harem?
The shape of the dress starts to take shape on the page almost immediately - guiding ribbons for the thorns to bite into, as with Mira's showpiece. These wrapped tight across the right shoulder, binding the arm to the side down to the elbow and constricting in angled loops that lead down to the opposite hip. This kept the left breast and opposing midriff and hip exposed (she hesitated for a moment before finally sketching the outline of a petal atop the breast. Prudes). Ideal. She would be gloried like this. Emphasized and lifted toward the heavens for the taking. She jots notes to the side: "Skirt: petals. Slivers? Translucent." Yes, that would be the trick. A tight membrane that would restrict the motion of her thighs and knees before it flared out into a weighted train behind her feet that still venerated her body as the gift it was truly meant to be, with special care designed into the window displaying the dark black panties that would be worn with the outfit.
The headdress would be a simple thing, by Hybrasil standards. A crown of blue roses with a Terenian-style bridal veil leading down the hair, so the point could not be missed. But that would not be enough. She pulled the crown lower, sketched it down and deeper until it became a blindfold of fabric kissed with rose petals, and then a full mask that left only her painted lips and her jaw exposed. She wrote another note, "Partial blindness". Yes, she wouldn't take away vision entirely, but between the obfuscation and the restrictions of the rest of the dress, the Terenian Queen would be a proper Bride of Hybrasil indeed, and would require the aid of several attendants at whatever party she wore this to.
She would realize Mayze Szerpaws was not a figure to be challenged. And she would realize she was a creature worthy of being loved and exalted. If she was as smart as was rumored, she'd figure both out in the same sentence.
Next, Maelia Dala Three Quetzal. A decision had to be made before anything. Investigate, or design? Mirror frowned deep enough to crease her entire face, and touched her pen. The mildly gangly frame of the famed scientist took shape in the upper right corner. She sketched in a dark mane around the head and neck to cement the point, and to design around. And that was that. If she was wrong, if it was an embarrassed intermediary, she'd just wasted paper. She'd have to tear a claw out as punishment. Her hand fumbled around for a drink.
Hibiscus. Hibiscus. If she meant to pull the flowers into a dress, she'd have to do something with the stamen. If she pulled them across... yes. A lattice, with the petals forming the main fabric. There would be no need for guiding materials, she would do this one in plants only. But for a Hybrasilian, traditional fashions were wasted. Little new to say by putting cat clothes on a cat. Little help to be done for her. Her pen busies itself with rhythmic, repetitive strokes.
The style was something she'd seen in a TC anime. A 'ball gown', they'd called it there. Loops around the shoulders hiding tiny straps that kept the dress up, and then nothing at all until the middle of the cleavage. From there, full coverage, the petals blossoming to cover all her fur, cinching tighter and tighter across the waist until it suddenly flares out at the hips like an enormous blossom itself, raining down to pointed shoes in a cascading pattern of falling leaves.
She painted ornaments like gun holsters at the hips, for emphasized motion. A necklace, made not of teeth or feathers but of linked bits of metal that would unfurl across her neck and chest like an accent for all of that wild hair Maelia Dala wore atop her head. If she fashioned it right, it would shift and jangle with every step she took. In fact, the entire dress was fit for that exact purpose. If she was famous for anything besides her work, Maelia Dala Three Quetzal was known for her graceful, flowing motions. Mirror sensed the presence of careful steps when she'd reviewed footage. Intentional. Deliberate. Controlled. It's why she'd committed to the sketch: the profile of the woman's gait matched the relative anonymity of the order request. Caution, mistaken for allure. Caution, mistaken for mystery. This would convert all of that caution into true desirability, and cement her reputation forever.
She writes a note next to the design, after consulting with her datapad for several long minutes. "Midnight Tryst (pink. starbust. radial purple, silver spiral). Waist sash? Contemplate."
That left Charon in the lower left corner. Unknown body type. Cybernetics implied, but... insufficient information for proper design work. A male, at that. Unexpected challenge. She would prefer to put him in a dress as well of course, but the idea kept getting caught at the front of her brain and refused to travel down her arm and into the pen. She'd come back to it.
She'd been thinking about this throughout her fight with Heim Stockar: the need to compliment a specific shade of red as the focal point of the design. "Tetradic compliments." A shade of gold, of teal, and of cyan combined with so-called "Imperial Red" to create a kaleidoscope like fireworks that would form the centerpiece of the outfit. The four-pointed flower, [Starlight's Breath], was ideally suited to this task. But as a primary material it would be too fragile. She needed something to protect it...
And then she had it. Unbidden, the shape of another sketch she'd seen before while browsing trashy media dumps with Solarel comes rushing to her head. A dress. A robe. Armor. All as one. The short skirt and tightly wrapped knee-length sandals, now draped with flowers instead of studded leather bands. A bright golden chest piece to gleam in whatever light would shine on Styx, covering pristine white robes with sleeves tied together with her precious flowers. She drew them as open slits that hung beneath the arms as a series of petals stitched together and wrapped with stems looped into tight bracelets around the wrists. These splashes of color would be especially good for emphasizing any artificial limbs the client might possess, and were ideal for implying beauty and power in whatever combination a wearer preferred.
To finish, she sketched a helmet around the head of the figure. Something like a crown, but suited to someone with a face made at least partially of metals (she paused to try and imagine this, but it was like staring into a black pit of water. Unknowable, even with a light and a rope). A hound's head, perhaps? No. Something less obvious, like the [Great Horned Dragon] and its massive, poisonous facial spine. Yes, that would be perfect. Something proud and prominent. Armor, and a dress.
But even still, she makes a note to send the colored and refined, digital version of this sketch back to the client's message server asking for feedback. Charon alone she would offer the chance for feedback to, because they alone had come to her without caution or pride.
And this, she supposed, was all the work that she could do. One empty corner. No unfulfilled orders. It felt like claws dragged across her nerves. She hated the unevenness of it, hated how incomplete her vision was. Hated that she couldn't even attempt to pursue...
Something clatters to the floor, knocked down by her tail. Her head shifts to watch it: furstick. The shortsighted gift from that wonderfully sweet little priestess. Mirror's hand glides across her body, fingering the places where her spots ran into disfigurement. Immediately, she starts sketching out the little leopard's frame from memory. Four corners now, good. A chance to work properly for once, good good.
Dala Hunters, Seven Quetzal. Priestess of the recently incarnated goddess Smokeless Jade Fires. She... deserved a gift. And as she had not asked for it, there was no need to make it a gift of flowers. Flowers... were not the point. Flowers were an idea. The point was expression. Beauty. This one would be done in furs and diaphanous fibers draped across her body like fallen snow. To make her beautiful, in a way that only she could be. Yes, that's right. The other parts of her line were important to. The finale was only ever a last expression of this singular idea.
A headdress made of holly and ribbons and blue-and-white teardrop patterned butterfly wings to be tied into her beautiful hair. She sketched with extra caution, and with all of the detail she can muster with her mediocre skills, filling in the rest with text notes where it's not clear to her own eyes. Crystals, water, snow, these would be the palette to be worked in. Because she deserved to be encased in Fisher treasures and treated like a jewel, and because this connection between the pair of them had to be expressed. Merely two fleeting touches from across a vast chasm. Each to call the other beautiful, and then to disappear. But in this way the meaning of the gift would be clear. The pilot Mira Fisher begged the designer Mayze Szerpaws for a favor after being told her deformities were worth loving. As thanks.
A fur lined, almost insubstantial cloak, dotted with stars she would intentionally stitch not to spell out any of the old paths tread by old warriors or old goddesses. Not a new story either, but... an open path. That was the compromise she could offer, as a strictly speaking non-believer. The cloak tied in at strategic points across the corset-style leotard: just beneath the bust and once more at the tiny strings wrapped around the hips. Snow and starlight the patterns here as well, layered with a fluttering and ghostlike banner that showed the priestess' fur and all of her beautiful spots, but changed their color. As if encased in jewelry, or kissed by a waterfall. Transformed, slightly, from leopard to snow leopard. Ribboned stockings and mismatched gloves in smooth Terenian styles: one a long elbow-length dress glove in solid blue and the other a delicate lace wrap that stood to do nothing other than highlight the structure of her wrist.
Finally, tall heeled and snow-white shoes with firm but petite straps around the ankles to lift her toward the kinds of heights most Hybrasilians needed to climb something to reach. Or so the joke went. If she was doing the math right, these would life Dala Hunters Seven Quetzal enough to not quite match Mirror. One final hint as to where the gift came from, if not in manufacture than in desire.
Mirror stared for a long time at the paper before carefully folding it in half, and then in half again going the other direction. Her eyes fell upon Slate again as she lumbered toward the fridge and threw a ginger beer across the room. She'd need to do a technical sketch later to cover her trail to whatever degree she could manage. An idea for a coolant vent in the cockpit, maybe. The new system generated a lot of heat. It was. Difficult. To adapt to.
"Slate."
"Boss?"
"Tell. The others..."
"Headaches again? Or would you rather I call you a sweaty, horny mess this time?"
Mirror snorted.
"It's. Your job, Selin. If you don't want it anymore, do as you please."
"I'll, uh... make sure your kitten understands. Ahaha... hoo boy."
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