part 6 of Threshold
The Viera wears a topper to match her gentleman's suit, earholes cut precisely. She frowns at a scale glossair model that refuses to spin. In the corner, a Seeq-sized Hume curses at what appears an armory's failed attempt at spontaneous procreation.
The satin-clad Moogle taps Ffamran's kneecap. 'You lost, kupo? The lav's down a floor.'
'You're the YPA?' Still at the threshold, Ffamran swallows his sneezes. Dust covers everything. 'I'm here to join.'
The Moogle disregards Ffamran's proffered blueprints, disdainful. 'We don't need another ideas man.'
The grandfather clock chained horizontal across the rafters chimes, or at least, tries. Something clicks, whirs, sproings. Efficiently, the Viera catches the falling cuckoo, five finger-long claws forming a cage. Inexplicably, Ffamran's glasses fog.
'I, uh, have a client. He's, um, rich—'
'A real client?'
'A real commission?'
The Moogle hiccups. 'For real gil?'
The Viera crooks her finger at Ffamran. The Hume dons drafting gloves, raises a bottle-thick monocle, and holds Ffamran's sketches to the attic's sole window.
'Let's order lunch in. Correcting this will take time.' The Viera strikes a rhythm on the table, measured. 'Not so long as my initial assumption.'
Ffamran takes slightly longer to recognize his warmth as joy.
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