dread-naught

They curtsy to me, and I return the gesture with precision before the manager interrupts. I do not... quite grasp what she means by "dollie-darlings," though then the other employee makes a comment about our "scary doll gimmick." They must have noticed the difference between our demeanor and that of the other humans; it does not seem to have dissuaded them from their decision to hire us, however. The employee leads us out, and I pay close attention to her instructions, for I must get this correct.

Soon, after delineating which section of tables we are meant to serve, the employee announces us ready for the floor. "And whatever happens, remember: the customer is always right. You're here to provide top-tier service, so do whatever you can to avoid getting complaints." She sighs, gives us a once-over, then nods. "All right, off you go. If you have any questions or difficult customers, come talk to me. But don't come running to me for every little thing, you hear?"

I curtsy, perfect and proper. "Understood." Then I turn to Denning, ensuring they are ready, before heading to our assigned section where a group has just been seated by the hostess.

It comes to mind that I am required to address each customer as "master" and "mistress." Such a simple yet important part of the role... what would Lord Nergal think? But Denning is here, having committed to this... if I know that Lord Nergal is my true master, a fact I can never forget, then it should be acceptable to obey the rules. None of these people can ever be my master, so perhaps it will be all right to call them by such a thing. I decide this moments before we arrive at the table, and side-by-side with Denning, I curtsy to the students seated before us.

False masters. 'Lip service'. Mortals are easily swayed by words. Weaving lies is not their strength, left to those more appropriate, but a slight shift in behavior to fulfill function is not out of the question. This place does not wield it for its intended purpose better than the Church, but it is still a task given, one to be fulfilled. The table seats a group of four, of which two students smile and titter at their approach, one looks perturbed by the two morphs that are set to serve them today, and the last simply observes, relaxed.

"They're so pretty..." whispers one, awed.

"I don't know. It's kind of scary. They're not even smiling..." murmurs another; their heads leaning close to eachother to speak, eyes remaining trained upon their maids. The fourth student's head turns towards her friends, brow quirking, eyes likewise flickering towards it and Limstella.

Denning doesn't pay any mind the odd looks, used to them both among Knights and Customers. So long as the Customer feels right, what Denning is beyond a hand that serves is of no consequence. Undeterred, it passes out the menus, movements smooth and exact, some accepting the items halfway, some allowing them to be placed in perfect parallel with the edges of the table.

But before it finishes, one more brazen hand reaches out, snagging its sleeve, crawling to its wrist; the fourth student again. If the coldness of its skin disturbs her, she does not show it.

"Hey, can't you at least smile a little? You're freaking my friends out."

"Annalise—!" One of the perturbed ones exclaims, hand grasping her shoulder in turn.

At this, Denning pauses. Stares. Comprehends. After a beat, it obeys, lips curling upwards in a perfunctory manner.

She keeps her eyes above the board, however - reddish eyes peek from behind brown bangs to stare at the opponent that so often haunted her nightmares. Each detail of their face, the golden eyes that had aimed towards her with killing intent, the intention to crumble a country from the inside out. An intention, she reminds herself, to kill every last soldier under her command, and then her. 

She wonders why they carry no weapon now. Why they’ve chosen to attack here, why their ambush sheds no blood but instead tips wood against the table, taps in code only they understand. There were other chances for them to finish the job. What stopped them now? 

The question rests on her tongue, but she bites it back, as she pushes forward a bishop. A clear offer, a sacrifice, ready to be met with an ambush of her own, but she wonders if they will take it. If they hunger for more bloodshed, or if they were following orders. If they see a piece, seperated from the army, defenseless on its own. Will they take it down, or will they let it live, ignore the bait, and push forward, to victory? 

She wants to throw the board aside, take them by the shoulders, and beg them for answers. To know why they’ve spared her so long, to understand the light that shines in their golden crow’s eyes. Instead, only a single word makes its way through her lips, a shaking, hesitant word, one she wishes she could speak with any amount of authority. 

Yes, they are not as flexible a strategist as one trained in the art. This is a losing battle. Still, theirs is an implacable offense, retaliation not for vengeance but simply for broad function. Openings are patched in that bloodless wake, toy soldiers falling into step, overwhelming with numbers. They are, as ever, an arrow shot, a vanguard offense, unable to be taken back.

The arrow aims not for the obvious sacrifice, still trained upon victory. Crows are oft opportunists, but this one is loyal, is stubborn. Instead, a rook is moved up to preempt the opposing bishop's advance, formation unbreaking for the offered gamble. The odds are not theirs to size up.

Spared? No. Overlooked. Irrelevant. A void of intent. In the absence of a need for destruction, there is nothing in the grand scheme of things. The sparrow's song trembles as she searches in that dark. A rattle in the throat, like a dying thing. The crow mimicks her tone, her cadence.

"wī?"

Their hands fold together, before they compose their own words to speak.

If this where anyone else, any other situation, he might have found the exaggerated pantomime humorous.

But, while it doesn't entirely put him at ease, it does tell him that the morph likely wasn't here for him. If so, they could have taken the chance to strike at him while he was taking stock of the water. Then they pull out a now familiar insignia, and Lloyd almost does laugh at the absurdity of fate.

Of course they were in the knights, just as he was.

His weapon isn't lowered until the morph moves past him, Lloyd reluctantly sheathing it once more as the construct stops and stares back at him, then beckons. Pulling in a deep breath through his nose and then releasing it in a heavy sigh, Lloyd runs a hand over his face and then up into damp hair. "Alright then, I suppose I have little choice."

He remains a step or two behind Denning, as he doesn't trust one of them at his back ever again, but he does grudgingly follow.

Bared steel is passed over without regard. The Fang's trust is not necessary, nor does Denning 'care' for it— They only need enough to ensure he follows, does not drown and die. His presence at their back likewise concerns them only in this; none regarding their own existence. Golden eyes track the sheathing of the blade only because it is motion. It simply makes sense that he does not attack, if he wishes to get out.

Little choice, indeed. So it is the two advance; their steps confidently find footholds even on the slippery rock as they advance from straightforward paths to greater inclines upwards, a hand outstretched to catch themself if needed, nimble from knowledge and calibration needed to find high perches in any weather. They do not need to check behind themself to confirm he is still there. The pervasive hum of his quintessence is enough.

That is why there is no true silence between them, but the lull in questions is still fleeting. A turn of the head at address, before Denning pauses to free their hands to answer. A moment of thought; Second tidal cycle, about sixteen and a half hours. They splay their hands, before holding up six fingers.

And yet here he was with the curious mind that defined him holding a staff that he had managed to sneak out of the academy’s stores. It had already been tested to a degree, but most of the tests had resulted in fairly strong reactions from those who received its power, earning it a dangerous label. Nevertheless, Kliff sought to crack the code behind this mysterious staff and curve the staff’s effects more favorably towards its wielder, hence why he temporarily borrowed one and made his way to the wilderness surrounding Garreg Mach.

At first, he tested it on animal’s of varying degrees. When cast on smaller fish, they managed to compete with larger ones. Rabbits jumped higher and birds flew faster. In all cases it appeared to increase physical ability, just like the academy’s reports. And just like the academy’s reports, each animal had a tendency to start conflict with even its own kind.

… but this is no good. I can’t debunk the anger issues without understanding their thought process. It’d only work if I could speak with the creature that ends up going wild.

And that means I need a creature that can speak in the first place.

But for now, the young mage would elect to continue exploring its effects on other subjects, shifting his focus to larger creatures. He had managed to hunt down a lone deer, unaware of his approach. Kliff knelt in the low-hanging bushes, staff in hand, and began to chant the incantation.

The steel grew hotter and hotter, almost as if the tool itself was burning with rage. His mumbles were soft, but the earth began to rumble beneath his feet. The power radiating from the staff was so strong that the flora around the young mage shifted as if consciously cowering in fear.

A final word was met by a ring of magic bursting forth towards the creature, but perhaps the sounds of rustling petals caught the beast's attention, as it just barely dove out of the spell’s path. The deer made a hasty getaway, and the ring flashed deeper into the foliage, marking its spot on a separate area altogether.

Agh, I missed it … maybe I’ve played around with this thing enough. I think I’ll head back.

Huntress' feet stalk silently in the underbrush, looking for quarry with sharp eyes— Pinpricks of life dance in her peripheries, little candlelights that dim and flicker, in some places clustering together close enough to be mistaken for a full person. A deer grazes a few dozen paces off, oblivious to the morph's presence, inhuman and inobtrusive.

Denning nocks an arrow. Takes aim. Draws.

The sudden, thunderous build of magic nearby shakes their aim with it, and when the arrow flies, it flies off course. The arrow is chased by a pulsing flash of light, a dozen paces off.

Their error: That had been a human, and a hunter far less subtle; The area was not remote enough, not quiet enough. How suboptimal. That deer had grown fat in preparation for the cold— And now it flees, wild-eyed and terrified. What a waste.

The straightening of its frame as it stands draws air into its lungs, its steps no longer silent, rustling gently as golden eyes affix onto that bright spot; What magic does this mortal wield that would shake a honed focus so gravely?

“Did you like the biscuit? The kiss?” A good place to start, she thinks. Her gaze rises to Denning’s again, and she stretches her hands against her lap. “If you just like the biscuit, we do not need to kiss anymore.” 

What is strange: Confessions are many things. Of faith, of doubt, of love, of hate. To confess love, one must love. But if love were present between them, she would not step upon the field of confession...

No. This too makes sense. Cards ever close to her chest. No openings. She will get the first move's advantage, always, and it will not be taken from her if she can prevent it.

This game too, a taking. On a field with emotion and attachment, a thrill, a vulnerability, a wound waiting to bleed. Prey taunting the hunter with an open flank. It makes note of this manner of hers, silently, habitually. She is the tactician, the girl, putting her tactics aside for moment, but it cannot put its hunting-habits aside the same.

But it does not give chase, because it still learns. It has learned. That is good.

Denning's hands had paused, still holding the uncoated end of the biscuit, regarding her, then it. Pinches it between fingers to respond:

'the biscuit is inconsequential. a pretense, a banister, a railing. as you are, i am only here to understand.'

A pause. An echo. 'satisfied?'

Opinions are not part of its purpose, but it too is mimicry for the purpose of understanding. In contemplation, it watches that spark of quintessence, caught between her teeth, shining through the gaps. It has no definitiive answer. The fact galls it.

Sephiran attempts to reread his notes but find them near illegible, either due to his own faltering senses or the mere fact that when he wrote them, his hand had already been unsteady. 

“Please take notes in my stead…” He hands the pages over- after all, anything would be better than nothing. “I’ll do my best to speak my condition but… I may be preoccupied.”

He looked at the little pot again- everything about it was unappetizing, from the smell, to the color, to how it was neither fully liquid nor solid. Still, there was nothing to be done. Closing his eyes, he lifts it to drink.

It is as foul as he expected, and he coughs after he finishes. Theoretically, the current remedy should prove to be less dangerous than the prior- the ingredients used, while unpleasant, were mostly harmless when consumed.

It is still legible enough. No matter. They watch, wait, impassive as he winces away from the stench, the sight, the odd consistency, as he chokes down the remedy.

...No effect? Denning tilts her head and notes that, too, down. Or, perhaps, it needs time, or cannot treat a condition that technically is not there, or does not react well with the prior medication...

A moment, before her palm extends again, flat and faced outwards, motioning for Sephiran to give it a moment to work once more.

It's a routine mission, if not one with more conflict than the typical scouting ones. Bandits, thugs, and other miscreants are preying upon travelers, and Garreg Mach sees fit to send some of its knights to protect the roads and villages that neighbor it.

Forsyth takes great pride in dealing with threats like this. Those who misuse their skills, those who take from the most vulnerable--they deserve nothing but the worst. He knows desperation can make an animal out of men, but it is no excuse.

The orders are to capture the camp, and apprehend what bandits they can to face the church's reckoning. Forsyth is paired specifically with the strange knight Denning, and while he has little rapport with or knowledge of his coworker, their archery is a familiar, welcome component to his plans.

The bandits are ill-equipped to deal with a fully armed regime of knights, however small, especially when ambushed. Several flee straight away, only to be hobbled by expertly-placed shots, and those who do attack do so sloppily, in ill formation, their attacks clanging uselessly off Forsyth as he shows them the form of justice.

It is hardly a true fight, but Forsyth regards them as he would any other enemy. He does not wish to meet his end at a brigand's axe, like too many he once served alongside. He can be reckless, yes, but not stupid--and as his lance sinks beneath the ribs of one particularly vile-mouthed fiend, he knows the man has little hope of recovery.

They weren't told not to kill these men, though the hopes are clearly weighed in favor of capture. Forsyth does his best, but the heat of battle is a fierce thing, and he cannot say that he feels remorse at the thought of the world being cleansed of one of these predators.

The conflict winds down, other knights claiming the camp as Forsyth ties and binds the wounded and looks around for stragglers. Denning joins him from their previous perch. Ah, good; two hands will be better than none at this, even with how incapacitated the remaining bandits seem to be.

Forsyth grabs a length of rope and heads toward them, taking note of the state of the man they stand before. Oh. True to his instincts before, Forsyth recognizes this as the man he surely mortally wounded; he convulses in a manner he knows is that of a man on death's door.

"Sir Denning, I--"

A blink. New quintessence, even if feeble, settles in its limbs, its core, proving the soul's value as prey, assuring their continued operation. A fortunate fate for both. The morph glances back down at the now-worthless carcass in its grip, the man's face frozen in last seconds of clearly-identifiable pain, fear.

Denning looks up. But, ah, that look in Forsyth's eyes, the set of his jaw, the shake of his step. Is that, too, fear?

... Why?

No, a different question must be asked first. What is 'fear'?

Fear: Dilated pupils, elevated heartbeat, shallow breath, a shot of adrenaline, a reaction torn between fight, freeze, fawn, flight. Sudden, unexpected stimuli of the senses, pain. A threat. A loss of control. Death. Darkness.

That still does not seem logical. This mortal was fatally wounded by the Knight's own hand. What does it matter, then, that Denning makes sure his fading life does not go to waste? Then again, fear is highly irrational; Something caused by the smallest of differences, a base instinct of the organic flowing over. So:

Is he afraid?

"...dü?" Denning repeats after a long pause, an imperfect mirror of Forsyth's voice. A pause. Answers alleviate fear. That, too, is fear: The unknown.

They look down at the empty vessel again, doing scarce more than occupying their hands and burdening their limbs at this point. It hits the floor. The point of Forsyth's lance does not follow the corpse when Denning drops it.

A single hand, unbloodied, pinches together in front of their face, before bending at the wrist towards their lips, equally unstained, opening once, closing once.

“Do you want to kiss?” She asks it plainly, though it does not stop the nervous tremble in her fingertips. “Is that the part you don’t understand?” 

If they want to kiss, well, they should skip the pretense. But the game is already begun, and Mark dutifully places the cookie between her teeth. 

“We move closer, and try not to break the biscuit.” 

She leans forward, and tries to look into Denning’s eyes. The brilliant yellow of their eyes glimmers in the light, and there is a brief moment where Mark is entranced by the sight - the frightening sight that somehow shines with beauty. 

“A kiss is a gesture of love,” she signs, her motions slight. “That is why it is so frightening.” 

But Mark is not afraid of Denning - not here, not now. They hold no weapon, and they make no move to harm. Their intention, as far as she can see, is understanding, and while Mark is no teacher, she remembers needing to be taught these things as well. She presses forward - not an attack, this time, but a gentle push, a lean closer. Her breathing evens. 

'i do not know,' it repeats, a truth still. But the biscuit does facilitate things, a constraint of direction. The smell of chocolate fills its throat. Perhaps that too is the biscuit's function: Less pretense, more guide.

This time, the morph nibbles at her end, inching closer by steady margins, gently, gently. The biscuit must not break. That is the lose condition. She cannot tell if the kiss, then, is victory or loss. A frightening gesture, a confusing gesture, a gesture so laden given away so emptily. Love? What is love but weakness? What if one plays with the loveless? Games are light, and this is a game, a game. The-fear-is-the-thrill, but to-win-one-cannot-fear.

She does not understand. Is Mark afraid? Veiled red is met with bright gold, and her 'bravery'—is that it, or folly?—it is striking. It is no attack, but Denning parries regardless. Or is it a mirror?

Be not afraid.

A slow crawl onwards. Lips meet, unremarkably, cold to warm, the former unmoving, shifting though pages upon pages of memory— There are bones, organs, muscles within the mouth, and too many of them are involved or uninvolved in times such as these. In reality, there is nothing she can consult other than the one before her.

Then—In warmth, there is a spark of quintessence, white-hot and close, a beating-heart that could rest between fangs, a vibrant shock of life that tempts her to devour—She does not, pacifying odd impulse. Golden eyes had not closed, casting its cold glow on brown lashes. They flutter downwards to observe, again.

Sustenance. A base want.

Ironic in the wake of the biscuit.

Denning stills. Parts. Speaks: 'love... i cannot.'

Oh. Mark looks up from her notebook as Denning sits down next to her, cookie already caught between their teeth. "The game?" She signs slowly, turning towards them. She fidgets with her fingers, trying to figure out how to best explain the game. She looks at the biscuit, then into their eyes. "Kiss," she signs, her gaze falling. "The game is to kiss." A beat. If she is to teach, she should demonstrate. She carefully, deliberately, bites down on her end, then inches her lips forward. "You want more biscuit," she signs, pausing her movement. "It tastes good." She creeps closer. There is no heat from their lips, and she suppresses a shiver. Another bite. A deep breath through her nose. Surely they won't push forward... right? "You don't want to break it." She shifts closer to them, cautiously. Another bite, and this one goes too far - the cookie breaks under her teeth, and she pulls away, covering her mouth with her hand as she chews what she's earned. "If you meet in the middle... you kiss." She wrings her hands. "We didn't kiss that time."

A loss condition. No win condition, not as such, but it stands to reason that what lies opposite is victory. The prize: More of the biscuit, or,

A kiss?

A gesture. Affection? Desire, betrayal?

(these violent delights have violent ends and in their triumph die, like fire and powder,

now the betrayer had arranged a signal with them: “the one i kiss is the man; arrest him—"

which as they kiss consume: the sweetest honey is loathsome in his own deliciousness.)

Lie and truth in one. Laden yet empty. Empty in this competition, but laden enough to entice, to terrify? The tactician bites down on the opposite end, and creeps closer. Her breath is forcibly steady, the fluttering wingbeat of her heart, the bright star of her quintessence far more intriguing to observe than the disappearance of the biscuit— Does she fear it, or the gesture that follows?

It does not think to mirror her until she pauses to explain; A gambit that surely would have cost her had Denning any idea what it is here to do. It only thinks, then: how convenient it is that we may speak through gestures alone and understand.

Even if this fails it. The biscuit breaks, with little effort on its part to claim it this time around. There is the briefest of pauses as the morph extracts its own share of biscuit from between its lips and lays it aside.

That must be amended. They pluck another from the box, and place it between their lips anew, the glazed side towards the tactician. 'i do not understand.'

Parts of a larger system, components of a mechanism. Any army, any contingent, any service fits the shape of this structure, and the Knights are no different; Each given their role, their task, in each operation, whether it is frontline, communications, reconaissance, cover fire...

Interception, neutralisation. The forest is dark and poorly-lit, the sounds of combat already carrying where it can wind past the trunks of the trees. Firelight in the distance, a small plume of smoke. The signal: Targets inbound.

Denning conveys a sharp bird-trill and begins to nock arrows and loose them, aimed to maim rather than murder. A kneecap, a tendon, a shoulder, a calf, a thigh—keep them from running. The fools only approach in a trickle, as projected, in various states of readiness and terror. In stark contrast, their companion does good work, goal-driven and faithful. His fervor, too, is notable: An obedient fervor is a powerful weapon. His lance and shield are unyielding. What he does not manage to cut down, they shoot from places unseen. It is a balanced dynamic.

Distant fire dies down. Quiet begins to trickle in. Many convicts lie writhing or still on the ground. One is gasping, gurgling around a wound in his chest. The Knight, Forsyth, has done good work. This one will not last. It will not do to let him go to waste.

The kitchen was a fast-paced hubbub of ruckus. Tethys only wanted to do her job, but things were never that simple. Customers complained, accidents happened, you know the drill, right? There was scarcely a moment where she was not running to and fro to fix a problem or mend a meal. She only hoped (and prayed) that this job was worth it in the end. An argument from the front of the house pulled her attention and the dancer moved towards the head counter.

"I mean I can't believe you!" the woman spewed. "Such a basic order like that and you can't get my burger right! What do you have to say for yourself? Huh?"

She seemed to be yelling at a new guy. Whatever the issue was, she was taking it too far. Yet they simply stood there and stared at her. Were they not going to say anything? The woman opened her mouth again.

"I'll have you know I can have my family call this place! You'll regret serving me like this!" 

That was it for Tethys. Sweeping the guy aside gently she plasted the most polite smile she had in her register on. "I'm so sorry for the mess ma'am. Allow us to reimburse you for the meal. But we don't tolerate treating our employees like this." 

"Please return when you wish to enjoy a hearty meal with us at Sir Donalds."

She did not order Cheese. There is a Cheeseburger on the menu, and she could have had it if she so desired. She need only have the eyes to read it. Alas, even that is beyond these mortals. The question in turn, then, should be more similar to:

Such a basic order, and you cannot even communicate it properly?

All these thoughts, but little ability to put it to speech. Pale throat bobs, struggling to find the words to begin making clear to this woman that this is clearly noones fault but her own and that she brings nothing but disruption and a lack of gratefulness to this establishment for feeding her, but the woman only takes his involuntary silence as invitation to begin shouting at the morph again. Empty threats.

So Denning continues to stare blankly, at somewhat of a loss. Not being rewarded is all the same to him, but to criticise him for a job perfectly done is new. In this case, the interruption is nearly welcome. His feet smoothly slide a few steps back as his coworker steps in, words coming to her far more readily. Golden eyes slide to the red-haired woman, then back to the dissatisfied Customer.

"You're kicking me out." The Customer says, dumbfounded, before her voice rises: "You're kicking me out?! The audacity—" And has the audacity herself to push back, fair frothing at the mouth. "I'm not done yet, don't you dare placate me! You there, let me see your name tag, I'm reporting you to your manager— Both of you— This is unacceptable!!!"

It makes a certain amount of sense: many students of the Officers Academy are nobles, raised in luxury and surrounded by servants to fulfill their bidding. Since humans are creatures that appreciate familiarity, it would stand to reason that the wealthier ones would feel more comfortable being waited on as they would be back in their homes. In addition, other students who have not been able to experience such a thing would no doubt be curious and wish to try it for themselves. All in all, I suppose it is an understandable venture.

Lord Nergal did not have me carry out such tasks, but I was still his finest servant. Surely I will succeed at waiting on others and become the best employee of the cafe?

The black-and-white uniform they offer me comes with feline ears on the frilly headband and a matching furred tail attached to the outfit. That is, as I understand it, one of the draws of this particular cafe, and while one might wonder why they didn't simply hire an all-feline-laguz staff, perhaps they couldn't find enough, or the candidates they found were uninterested. In any case, within minutes I finish dressing myself and examine the result in the changing room mirror for several long moments. When I am satisfied that my appearance is worthy of Lord Nergal's preferences, I exit and follow the senior employee to the kitchen, where she proceeds to give me a training session on bussing and waiting tables. As I take in the information, I notice that the other employees appear far more personable while attending to their own guests. They act playful and friendly, full of life and vigor as the living do, to the customers' pleasure... I have my work cut out for me, it seems, in order to surpass them.

Another employee enters, prompting the trainer to wave them over. I glance at them while the trainer introduces them as another newcomer and am met with familiar black hair, pale skin, and gold eyes. Features the same as my own, a face I could not forget for the fact that we once served the same master. What has brought the speaker here to Fodlan? Did our master direct things such that they would find themselves with his most trusted?

"... Denning."

Denning was not concerned when the betting pool went out, and remained unconcerned as they were escorted to the cafe in question, cheered on by their fellows. It was still utterly unbothered as it was ushered into another room, its measurements taken, colors checked, face touched up, a dress and matching accessories picked from a cascade of monochrome and pastels—Then quizzed and drilled on proper etiquette. Denning flows between tables in a flurry of black and white lace, lithe arms deceptively strong for platters and teapots.

An inability to speak is noted—But, ah, to miss out on such a pretty face, on such a graceful bearing, such unfailing dedication to each and every false 'Master'! The Manager sees no issue: All the better to partner with someone else, then. Someone who fits its 'vibe'...

"Now, we've just the perfect recruit for this!" The Manager trills with a flourish, leading it towards a bright null-spark, an anti-matter in the sea of quintessence.

Now this, while they cannot be called a concern, is interesting, at the very least. Golden eyes do not so much as blink as Denning regards its kin, something it had not expected to see again. Another beat, before it dips into a curtsy, gingerly lifting its skirts by a perfectly measured margin.

'limstella,' pale hands abbreviate their name to 'star', movements exact to give them the respect they are due. Faculties grasp for more words to grace them than just their name (though what is greater than that? The name a Master has granted—) when the Manager clasps her hands together and smiles.

"So you two know eachother then? Excellent, most ideal—Rosalind, will you please be a dear and guide our latest dollie-darlings through their first shift?"

... Dollie-darlings?

The senior employee gives an equally perfect curtsy and regards the two morphs, hiding her disquiet well. "I'm sure we've got a bunch of customers who're into your whole... Scary doll, gimmick. Come along, now."