#tlhminty

Why is there… so much dust?

Minty moves in a tight circle. She stops abruptly, her breath shallow. Her hands, pale and damp, fumbling with the hem of her apron. She wipes at a speck of lint, her fingers trembling as they smooth the starch-stiffened fabric.

Two maids sit on a nearby bench, their shoulders nearly touching as they murmur to one another. She draws her shoulders inward, pulling her elbows flush against her ribs. She reaches up to adjust her headband, her fingers grazing the base of her ears before dropping back to her sides.

Minty steps through the double doors into the dining area. Her hooves land the hardwood with a wooden click. The café is bright, smelling of roasted beans and scented sugar.

Four figures stand at the entrance. They are bundled in heavy wool coats and broad-brimmed hats that cast deep shadows over their faces, a stark contrast to the light floral décor of the room.

The head maid approaches them. She bows. One of the figures in the group leans in, murmuring. The head maid’s gaze shifts. She raises an arm, her index finger extending to point directly at Minty. She nods once.

Minty’s tail goes rigid, pressing flat against her hind legs. Her pulse thrums at the base of her throat, a visible tremor. She takes a half-step back, her hoof scraping against a floorboard. The world feels too small, the ceiling too low.

Minty retreats, her hooves scrambling against the floorboards through the double doors. Back inside the break room, she leans her forehead against a cold metal locker. The fabric of her sleeves bunches in her grip as she glares at the indentations her weight has pressed into the rug.

“Minty?"

Minty’s entire frame jolts, her spine hitting the locker.

A woman in a sharp navy blazer, her hair pulled into a tight, grey-streaked bun, steps inside. She adjusts her glasses, the lenses catching the overhead light. "The customers at the corner booth... they asked for you."

“Reiss! Oh, I’m sorry, I…” Minty draws in a shaky breath, shaking her head frantically. "I'm not... I shouldn't be out there," She whispers, staring at her reflection in a small wall-mounted mirror, her ears pinned low. "I'll… break something. They'll see I don't belong.”

Reiss steps into Minty’s peripheral vision. Her gaze softens. "I hired you because you possess a precision most of the others lack. You are trained, dedicated and talented." She pauses, her gaze fixing on the double doors. "Go out there. These customers are not looking for a reason to find fault. They want you to succeed.”

Minty’s fingers curl into her palms, her nails digging into the fur. She looks at the menu sitting on the table. “I’m… I’m sorry, I’m being so-”

"You will be okay," Reiss states. It is a directive, not a question.

Minty’s hooves stutter across the hardwood. She keeps the menus pressed against her chest, the laminated plastic a cold barrier between her and the room. She keeps her gaze fixed on the floor, tracking the grain of the wood until the shadow of the corner booth falls over her hooves.

Minty stops at the foot of the table, her breath catching.

She looks up.

Jules sits at the head of the booth, her glasses catching the soft café light. Beside her, Koa leans back, his jaw relaxed, his tattered cardigan sleeves pulled over his palms. Across from them, Ery’s feathery antennae curve forward, twitching in the scented air. Next to her is a small, four-point silhouette in a orange fluffy coat, Cadence. They had just finished piling their coats and hats on the bench in a heap of fabric.

“Oh, hi Minty,” Jules says, her voice level. She taps a finger against the tabletop. “Can we get the-”

A sharp, broken sob catches in Minty’s chest. Her vision blurs into a mess of light and colour. The menus slip from her hands, clattering onto the table.

Jules pauses as she looks up from the menu.

She stands and wraps her arms around the taur’s shivering waist, pulling her flush against the wool of her cardigan. Minty buries her face into the crook of Jules’s neck, her tail dropping limp as she weeps into her shoulder.

After a long minute, Jules pulls back, keeping her hands on Minty’s shoulders to steady her.

“Alright,” Jules murmurs, a small smile touching her lips. “What about a practice run? What’s the special?”

Minty pushes through the swinging doors. The kitchen air is thick with the scent of fried eggs and steam. She sets the empty tray onto the stainless steel counter. Her hands are steadier now, though a her fingertips still nervously hum.

Reiss stands by the pass, typing notation on her phone. She looks up, her glasses reflecting the overhead fluorescent grid. "You’re very natural at it, Minty."

Minty’s ears twitch upward. She bows, her head dropping low. "Thank you. I… I was trying very hard to remember the steps."

"It showed," Reiss says. She reaches for a ceramic plate resting under the heat lamp. It is a portion of omurice, the yellow curve of the omelette draped over rice. A small face is drawn in ketchup on the surface, two dots for eyes, a wide, looping smile and a pair of ears on the sides.

Reiss slides the plate across the counter toward her.

Minty stares at the ketchup face. She tilts her head, her fingers hovering over the edge of the ceramic. "Is there… a modification to the order? I didn't see this on the ticket."

"It isn't an order," Reiss states. She tucks her phone under her arm. "We do not typically permit the staff to occupy the dining area during a shift. But your friends… Are they your friends?"

Her spine straightens. "They’re my family, actually."

Reiss nods once. A small crease appears at the corner of her eyes. "The café is currently at low capacity. Go. Have lunch with your family, Minty."

Minty’s throat hitches. A hot tear spills over her cheek, landing on the starch of her apron. She grips the warm plate with both hands, her knuckles pressing into the ceramic as her shoulders begin to shake. “T… Thank you Reiss. I won’t forget this.”

The midday sun hits the steam clinging to the glass, diffusing the light until the interior of the café feels like a bright, translucent bubble. Ery’s antennae sway, filtering the golden haze.

Koa leans his elbow on the table, looking at Jules. "So. Do we have a heading for tomorrow? We’re all off the clock."

Jules rests her hands in her lap. "I thought we could try a random roam. We pick a street, walk until we find something interesting, and eat whenever we find a scent we like."

Minty’s fork stalls over her omurice. She looks at the ketchup face, then at the bright world beyond the café doors.

"It's different out there," Minty murmurs. She shifts her hooves under the table, her keratin clicking against a metal support. "In here, I have a uniform. People understand why I’m here. If we just walk... they'll see how weird I am. They’ll stare."

Koa leans back, his long sleeves sliding up his forearms. He taps his knuckles against the wood. "Minty, look at us. Being weird is the family business. We’re all pretty good at it by now.”

Cadence nods once, her expression flat. "Koa is correct. Our collective social profile is significantly abnormal. Staring is a statistically guaranteed outcome regardless of our location.”

She reaches into the pocket of her orange coat. Her small, pale hand emerges clutching a single, squishy sugar-gem. She extends it toward Minty’s plate.

Jules’s hand shoots out, her fingers clamping gently over Cadence’s wrist before she can drop the sweet. Jules squints through her glasses, her head tilting. "Where did you get that? We haven’t been to a shop since we landed. Can you even get gushers around here?”

"It was part of my tactical inventory," Cadence says. She pulls her arm back, though Jules keeps a loose grip on her sleeve. "I have carried eight units in this pocket since the flight began.”

Ery leans in, her antennae twitching toward the candy. "Isn’t that… technically illegal? You’re supposed to declare that at the border."

Cadence yanks her wrist free from Jules’s grip. "Categorising survival resources for long-distance expedition as 'illegal' is a logical failure. It is a ridiculous law."

Jules rubs her temples with one hand. "It’s a customs violation, Cadence."

"The distinction is semantic."