“Yes, Monsieur, paid in advance,” Fervidora assures. If you strain your ears, you can hear the crashing waves ten stories below, wafting in through the open balcony doors. As Ø ransacks the bedroom, nearly finished with her third complimentary bottle of bubbly, you’re stuck waiting on her once more. At least the attendant is giving you good news.

“By who?”

“By you, Monsieur LeFlore!” she hee-haws with laughter. The professional look on her face has turned aloof. She’s nearing the end of her bondage, entertaining your last few bits of interrogation.

“No,” you question, “who is actually listed on our account?”

“Well, we are in the Casino, no? Let’s check,” she chirps.

Her thumbs dig beneath her translation collar, brushing past her fur, planting her thumbprints into the receivers, locked for security. Out spits out a three-dimensional invoice. It encases the wall, hovering over the mural of giggling cherubs. Line after line of verbose verbiage, a confusing contact no doubt negotiated on your behalf. The ass points towards the document’s corner, where data hides beneath an encrypted reproduction of the Department’s seal of approval, a waxy coat of arms, block-chained with authenticity should it ever be formally contested.

“Like all of your accounts with us, your expense is listed here. Under the care of the Republic of Barataria’s Treasury Department, as you can see from the signature here from the Grand Pensionary himself—”

“But that must just be a front, right?”

“Monsieur!” She stammers, shocked at your raucous display of openness. Here you are, just arrived, already talking of money. “I assure you, once more, that our great Department cares not where your funds may have originated! Your business is yours, and yours alone. Why, you have already put up more than enough liquidity for any tabs or markers you could ask for, within reason.”

“Liquidity? We didn’t give you any cash.”

“From the sale,” she says with confidence. Your confusion is immutable. Fervidora struggles to maintain her aura of hospitality as her brow furrows, lips pouting, wondering how many more questions you may have. “The Zelmire. The ship you just disembarked. Your prize,” she continues with trepidation, “you entered into an agreement of sale not three hours ago. Why, our lack of industry precludes such industrious pursuits as spacecraft construction, and since she is in such good shape, or as you told my superiors, we paid well over third-party valuation, generously—”

“Good riddance,” Ø spits. “That thing’s a deathtrap.”

Your mare has returned, empty-handed. She stamps the liter-and-a-half bottle on the cocktail table between the two couches, nearly shattering the emptied container. Such a display would have shot opaque glass across the room, splattering her with reflective bits of stone.

Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

Similar to how she looks now.

While your linen suit weighs heavy on your frame, Ø’s outfit is light. Form-fitting around her waist, off-white satin straining against her wide shoulders, her dress in opulent opposition to your informal suit. At the ruffles of her long dress, splaying onto the floor, forcing her to carry it with vigor, is faux-ermine fur. The synthetic black splotches are no doubt dyed with organic cephalopod ink gathered from beneath the seas, sacs wrung dry, used for cooking as well. The mare’s already burned a cigarette hole at her left ring finger, not used to the gloves stretched to her elbows, form-fitting, itchy, bursting with fur at her biceps. If her mane wasn’t tied with that satin white bow, or the corset tied with steel-nylon knots, her outfit would explode, Gibson hairdo ricocheting against the moldings, killing anyone within punching distance. Purple brooch turning to shrapnel, white-gold earrings to fired bullets.

Against all odds, she’s cleaned up nicely, scowl and all.

“But it’s still got my Kanapaha. And a couple pistols,” Ø growls.

She blows past you both, throwing herself waist-deep in the corner armoire. The mare paws through the organized weaponry, resting atop freshly installed pegs. The gun rack is optimized for space, showcasing each piece equipment, from the lowliest derringer to a freshly laundered antimatter cannon. There’s four, five spaces for further additions, no doubt factoring in the weapons left in Zelmire’s care.

“Never fear, Madame LaFlore. The Zelmire will be stripped, and any of your property not affiliated with the sale will be returned immediately.” The ass takes the bottle in her hands and stands, “but for now, I’ll dispose of this on your behalf. As I assume you both will finally begin enjoying yourselves?”

“Sure,” the mare replies, taking a third mental inventory, realizing that a clutch of plastic explosives is also missing.

“Aren’t you coming with?” you ask of the attendant.

“Oh, no,” she apologizes. You assume she’s sick of your company after two hours of shepherding. “Tradition. Any citizen of our Department can never linger in the Casino. No betting, drinking, etcetera. I only assist visitors like yourselves.”

“That’s why you took us through the back way?”

“Precisely,” she chirps, preparing for her Fontvieillian leave.

“I thought it was the dress code,” the pirate sneers, shutting the armoire with a wooden crash.

Her left hand holds the Narragansett. Polished, left cleaner than the attendants found it. She ruffles up her dress, stuffing it at her thigh’s holster. It’s hidden beneath her petticoat, expertly embroidered, form-fitting. Even unloaded, of a different weight than usual, the six-shooter warms her psyche, comforting her in ways far beyond your capability.

“Well, evidently, I do not expect any more dress code issues for either of you. Once more, please, do not hesitate to find me on Merchants’ Street—my family is most anxious to show you what our Department has to offer.”

“Sure,” the mare says, putting her cigarette out against the armoire.

The attendant’s au revior is almost unnoticed, her adieu as informal as her introduction on the landing pad. Her exit, more importantly, strands you. Once more, with a disgruntled mare, arms crossed with indignation, staring down at you from her rapidly sobering promontory. A finger prods your new jacket, its soft fabric giving in to Ø’s accusatory pokes.

“I look ridiculous,” she spits, “did you do this?”

“Obviously not.”

“That ass said there was instructions. They weren’t yours?”

“You would know if they were,” you groan. “And you look just as awful as I do. Just look at me. I look like that Robichaux stooge.”

“So you look like a stooge, and I look like a girlie. Perfect,” she nickers, instinctively scanning the room for something to break in half with her bare hands, another piece of furniture to sully. “Get up already. Let's get to the bar.”