I see a cat's tail
"Mind if I join you, péng yǒu?"
Ly had approached the punk while his stare was miles away, the cigarette between his fingers found its way to his mouth and another plume rose in sweet tendrils of clove. Lyen was in the same clothes she'd inherited when she took her room aboard the Veil, and her hair was in a braid that fell over her shoulder. She took a seat beside Vas.
"You've been quite busy this week, I'm sure Riley and the Captain must be pleased. To be honest, I'd be surprised if the ship has ever been this spotless, with a bay full of drogs no less. How are you holding up? I know we haven't had much time to catch up since the Skyplex, and, well, what you've been through..."
She trailed off. She could have been speaking about the Reavers, about him being forced to leave the Lunar Veil, about him being drugged and signed into slavery, or even the macabre state in which he returned to the Veil. In fact, even just one of those would have been loaded enough to need unpacking. But this punk, the ever buoyant spirit of the ship, behaved like not a thing had changed; that they had not already said their final goodbyes; that not one eyefull of sleep had been lost for the blood, for the violation of volition, encountered aboard this Sky Hook. His experiences were somewhat common knowledge now, aboard the Veil.
The drogs were settling down now, looking much like fluffy mountains on their sides, ebbing and flowing to the nightly rhythm of sleep. The smell of Vas' cigarette was inviting, especially the way the scent masked the drog-kri. Ly was fiddling with the silver prayer wheel Adler had gifted her, his own prayer still locked inside.
"I don't mean to intrude. I'm sure other people have tried to ask after you in a similar way. You're a special one, and that fact illicits concern from those, well, concerned about you. I guess I mean to say that if you wanted to talk, I'd be willing to listen. You know, I can be rather unbiased, not unlike one of those fluffy mounds."
She offered the mohawked punk a meek smile. Ly almost asked if she could bum a clove, but stopped short--the drogs, the smoke, the cold metal beneath her concocted a cocktail of past senses she would be remiss to drink in. Especially in another's hour of need.