The Riotfish were gathered in the lounge, listening to Fleer's news.
"Okay! Guys! We need to get this place in top shape by the time this auditor shows up. We want to look professional and clean and creditworthy. We need to prove to this guy that we are a viable, vibrant business that will totally pay back all the money we owe him."
Worried murmurs rustled around the room.
"How-- how much of a problem is this audit?" D'khara asked timorously, as though he could not see the panic openly oozing from Fleer's every pore.
"I'm not going to lie, this is huge. If this auditor downgrades us, it could be a real blow to our cash flow, which is already tight."
"Should we tidy the HQ, or...?" Oliver trailed off.
Fleer, who was already thinking of how he would make the finances look less disastrous, responded with a distant air.
"Huh? Sure. I mean, just make us look professional. Like we know what we're doing."
"What else can we do?"
Distracted from his thoughts again, Fleer got snappish.
"Do? Just... I don't know, figure it out! Really put out the welcome mat for this guy! Impress him! I need everyone to come together and make this happen in a big way. I'll be in my office if anybody needs anything."
So saying, Fleer bustled off to wrangle spreadsheets.
Looks of concern passed around the room, uncertainty filling everyone's eyes.
Except for Roger. Roger knew exactly what he needed to do.
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Look professional? Well, what would make the Riotfish look more professional than a well-stocked armory?
D'khara glared at the pile of rifles. It was ridiculous, the number of Borka automatic rifles the Riotfish owned. Even Roger couldn't conceivably use more than three, or maybe four at a time. The ridiculousness was only slightly dwarfed by the number of rifles that were permanently non-operational.
There were at least sixty rifles in various states of disrepair and neglect lying in a jagged, disorganized pile on the floor. With some luck, he could salvage enough parts to build five or six fully functional rifles. For someone else to shoot. He, personally, wouldn't touch them.
He tugged distractedly at his mustache. It aggravated him to even think it, but this pile of trash parts had one advantage: they looked like rifles. Knock the rust off, new bluing on the steel and a fresh coat of stain, and you'd think they'd just rolled out of the factory.
He frowned deeply. Doing a sloppy, incomplete job was fundamentally against his nature, but if it was this or the mines, well, that wasn't even really a question.
He glanced at the clock. Sanding and bluing this many rifles by himself would take days, not hours. He needed a faster solution.
He stomped out to the storage area to fetch the 55-gallon drum of wood stripper, and to see if they had any black lacquer.
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Oliver busied himself in the war room, organizing his documents. He was preparing a high-level overview of his tactical planning, the Riotfish assets, and logistical capabilities. He walked around and around the projection table, carefully arranging the files into folders, the folders into categories, and the categories into groups.
"I'll start with the Riotfish mission statement," he muttered as he worked. "Then I'll address the three top-level bullet points: Agility, Surprise, and Flexibility, and dive briefly into our implementation of each element. I'll pause for questions, then move into our command structure and planning policies. Time permitting, perhaps I can delve into our team dynamic and specialties.
As he muttered and puttered in the dimness, the sun sank outside. The day was nearly done.
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Little Timmy lounged on the sprung sofa, watching the holopad. The bustle and scuffle of the other Riotfish didn't affect him much. Not when he had all these commercials to watch.
Mrs. Meade wandered by with a mop in one hand and a bucket in the other.
"Little Timmy? What will you be doing for our guest?"
He grunted, his eyes never moving from the holopad.
"I dunno. Whatever. What are you doing?"
"Oh, I've washed and waxed the Battle Wagon, scrubbed up all the restrooms so clean, and now I'm just tidying up the main areas. I thought that when the auditor comes tomorrow, I'd bake him some fresh, homemade cookies. Won't that be nice? Everybody likes a little treat."
Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.
Little Timmy grunted again.
"Can you think of something you could do to help him feel welcome in our little home?"
Little Timmy ignored her, staring slackly at the images dancing on the buzzing circular pad until she gave up and wandered off.
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Roger was in the back area of the Riotfish HQ, diligently digging through a box. He hadn't found what he was looking for yet, but if they had one anywhere, it would be in the long-forgotten rooms and mazes of old junk in the back.
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The next morning dawned dimly, the sun's weak, white rays washing the walls of the Riotfish HQ. Mrs. Meade was the first one up, as always, making coffee in the kitchen. She always made coffee for everyone, though she never seemed to drink any herself.
Little Timmy stumbled into the kitchen, bleary-eyed. He made a drunken beeline to the coffee pot, snagged a dirty mug from the sink, and poured a cup of Mrs. Meade's coffee into it. He slammed it back, downing the steaming beverage in two long gulps, screamed, and poured himself another cup.
Mrs. Meade, accustomed to this, didn't flinch.
"So Little Timmy, have you thought about what you might do for our visitor today?"
Little Timmy stretched his face and rolled his eyes. This already.
"I haven't even had coffee yet. Not even my coffee. And you're hassling me about this."
"I just think that Mr. Fleer will be very upset if you haven't done anything for our visitor."
"Fine, fine. I'm gonna do something. I'll..."
In a daze, he glanced around the kitchen. Mrs. Meade had already started preparing cookie dough; the bowl sat on the counter. This percolated through his brain along with the first rush of caffeine as the burning coffee worked its way through his protesting system.
"I am gonna make a pizza."
"Oh? I didn't know you could make pizza."
"I can. Totally. It's very famous. So, uh, I need you to clear out of the kitchen so I can work."
"Oh, but the cookies--"
"No, it's fine, I'll take care of it. It's good."
"Are you sure?"
"Go on. I need to make the magic. Go pet your van or whatever."
Mrs. Meade huffed out of the kitchen, leaving Little Timmy to his own devices.
He dashed the remaining coffee from his mug onto his face, screamed some more, and poured another cup, staring at the bowl of cookie dough. Making a pizza was going to be so easy.
After all, the dough was already done.
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D'khara snerked awake at his workbench. He blinked muzzily, trying to remember why he was sleeping in the armory. His field of vision swept over to the rifle racks, where the orderly row of Borkas sparked his memory.
Oh yeah. The audit.
He slid out of his chair and wobbled over to the rifles, yawning hugely. The stain was setting well into the stocks for all that it had only been drying a few hours, but the lacquer looked tacky and lackluster. Hm. Maybe a quick extra surface coat this morning would gloss them up a little. He nodded.
The armory was sorted. Now for that last thing in his purview.
D'khara stomped back over to his workbench and pulled a device off the crowded surface, spilling tools and steel bar stock onto the floor. Shaking the pieces loose from each other, he considered what he held in his hands.
Well if he was ever going to try them, now was the time.
He carefully fitted the devices to his legs: first one, then the other. He strapped his feet in firmly, then gently stood.
He rocked back and forth experimentally and took a few steps. So far so good.
He fished out a small wired fob, held his breath and softly eased the switch forward.
The extenders on his legs hissed quietly. The hydraulics operated, and the shank rods that held the whole assemblage extended, lifting him a foot higher off the ground.
With a small smile that bordered on smug, he walked around on the most complicated stilts ever devised. The footpads on the bottoms of the extenders flexed with his toes, giving him a natural walking gait. His balance was iffy, but a little practice quickly smoothed that out. Grinning more, he jogged around the open armory, testing his longer legs.
The extenders clacked together, nearly throwing him over, but he was able to catch his balance. He let out a slow breath.
Don't push that luck.
After more testing and walking around, D'khara nodded. Perfect. He'd fixed his shortness. Maybe now the auditor wouldn't be able to tell he was a dwarf?
He left the armory and walked back to his bunk, fob in one hand. Once there, he closed the door and looked at himself in the cheap full-length mirror that was barely attached to the back of his door.
The extenders were slim steel appendages reaching from his stubby feet to the floor. With his... upper body density, the overall visual effect was one of an angry lollipop.
He frowned deeply.
He'd need longer pants to cover the extenders.
And the only person who was even close to his waist size was Little Timmy. Who he did not want to ask favors from.
But if Little Timmy didn't know...
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Little Timmy was swearing and bleeding and trying to cut vegetables with a steak knife. The cookie dough had been hammered into a couple of pizza pans, and two empty jars of spaghetti sauce lay on the counter. The majority of the sauce was on the pizzas, but no small amount was sprayed on various walls and appliances of the kitchen, the result of a small fit he'd had trying to get a lid off.
The selection of vegetables was a bit limited. The Riotfish as a whole did not go in for a lot of fresh veggies, in spite of Mrs. Meade's best efforts. Little Timmy had found some bell peppers, for a wonder, and something that was probably a mummified onion, which he was trying to chop into little pieces. It kept rolling around on the counter, making the knife slip.
He sheared more skin off his fingers with a little shriek, and flung the knife at the wall. Casting about, he spotted the blender tucked into the corner of the counter.
"There!" he said. "That's what I've been missing! The right tool for the job!"
He pulled the blender out, dumped in the bell peppers, the probably-onion, a can of black olives, some shredded cheese, and a handful of questionable mushrooms he'd found in the bottom of the fridge. He briefly considered the pepperoni, but decided to put those on after, since they were already sliced.
"Artistic!" he crowed.
He pushed the button to start the blender. He pushed the button to stop the blender, wiped his face off, put the lid on the jar, and pushed the button to start the blender again.
The blender whirred merrily for a minute or two. He stopped it, shook the jar around some, watching the contents slosh, and ran it some more.
Once the slurry met his satisfaction, he poured it liberally on the pizzas. He piled on some more cheese, carefully laid the pepperonis on the surface, and stuck the pizzas, such as they were, into the oven.
"Job done!" he called triumphantly.