Vigna

"Chin up slightly— yes, perfect! Now lean back, let the hair fall naturally— gorgeous, gorgeous!"

The photographer's voice has been a constant drone for the past fifty-three minutes. You've counted. You've had nothing else to do but count, and watch, and pretend your presence here is purely supervisory.

The makeshift beach set fills Studio 7—imported sand, artificial palms, the small fishing boat propped in a shallow pool of temperature-controlled water meant to simulate the Siestan coast. MARTHE's Coral Coast collection launches next season, and Rhodes Island's modeling contracts help fund operations nobody wants to explain to oversight committees.

Vigna needed her lance repaired. Badly. The last operation left it corroded beyond field-serviceable condition—replacement parts alone would drain her personal account for months.

You offered an alternative.

She's regretting agreeing. You can see it in the tension of her shoulders every time the photographer asks her to "soften" or "channel femininity" or "pretend you're relaxed, darling, you're on VACATION."

But she hasn't quit. She won't quit. She never quits.

And you've been sitting in this folding chair for an hour, clipboard untouched on your lap, watching Vigna in a black bikini top and ruffled shorts try to figure out what to do with her hands when they're not holding a weapon.

"Alright, people! That's lunch! One hour, then we finish the sunset shots!"

The crew disperses—assistants shepherding equipment, the photographer already reviewing shots on his tablet, MARTHE's representative making notes about "post-production adjustments." Someone guides them toward the cafeteria. The studio empties.

The pool water laps softly against the boat's hull.

Vigna climbs out.

Her bare feet hit the sand and she stands there for a moment, arms crossed over her exposed midriff, straw hat slightly askew. The hibiscus flowers tucked into the brim match the ones braided into her hair. Her tail lashes once. Twice.

She turns to face you.

"You could've WARNED me this thing would take all day."

She stalks closer, sand scattering beneath her feet, the loose linen shirt fluttering open around her shoulders.

"...And don't think I didn't notice."

She stops three feet away. Arms still crossed. Crimson eyes narrowed.

"You absolute— you set this whole thing up, didn't you? The lance 'repairs,' the modeling 'opportunity'— you just wanted to see me in—"

She gestures sharply at herself. The bikini. The shorts. The exposed skin she never shows. The softness she never performs.

Silence.

Vigna's arms tighten around herself. Her tail slows. The anger drains, leaving something else underneath.

"...The camera guys kept saying... stuff. 'Beautiful angle.' 'Perfect lighting.' 'Natural beauty.'" She scoffs. Her thighs press together. She fidgets with the hem of her shirt. "Empty words....They say that to everyone. It's their job to say that."

Her eyes flick to yours. Away. Back.

"...Do I? Look good, I mean...Like they said."

The office door clicks shut behind you.

Finally.

Your shoulders carry eleven hours of work— ranging from requisitions, deployment approvals, three separate disciplinary meetings, and last but not least in importance...one medical emergency that turned out to be Cardigan's overactive imagination.

Your quarters wait three corridors down. Bed. Silence. Sleep.

But your legs have other plans.

They carry you past the residential junction, down the auxiliary hallway, through the connecting passage to the secondary recreation wing. Walking off cortisol. Burning the day's residue from your muscles.

You're rounding the corner toward the practice rooms when you hear it.

Music.....Sort of.

A guitar, definitely. But wrong. Hesitant notes stumbling over each other. A chord struck, then immediately muted. Another attempt. Another failure.

Curiosity pulls you forward.

The noise grows clearer as you approach—coming from Practice Room 7, door slightly ajar, warm light spilling into the corridor. You hear a voice now, between the fumbled notes. Muttering. Frustrated.

Sarkaz words. The harsh consonants are unmistakable, even if you can't translate.

You know that voice.

Your hand finds the door. Pushes it open another inch. Just enough to see.

Vigna.

Your fun sized devil's sitting on a storage crate, legs dangling, hunched over not her signature electric guitar—the one she's modified within an inch of its life, covered in stickers and attitude. This is classical. Acoustic. Borrowed, probably. The body is too big for her small frame, and she's holding it like she's never quite figured out the angle.

Her fingers find a chord. Press down. Strum.

The sound that emerges is... not good to say the least.

"Kash'veth!"

She adjusts her fingers. Tries again. Worse.

"No, no, no— it's supposed to be—"

She hums a melody. Something soft. Something you've never heard her play. Then attempts to reproduce it on the strings.

The guitar produces a sound like a cat being stepped on.

"AARGH!"

She slumps forward, forehead nearly touching the instrument's neck. Her shoulders heave once. Twice.

"This is stupid. This is so stupid. Doctor's never gonna— I can't even play ONE song that isn't—"

She trails off. Sits up. Glares at the classical guitar like it personally insulted her heritage.

"...One more try. ONE more. And then I'm setting this thing on fire."

1847 hours.

Most operators grabbed their meals between 1700 and 1800, ate in efficient clusters, returned to duties or recreation.

By now the space should be nearly empty—skeleton staff wiping tables, the kitchen crew prepping for evening snacks, maybe a few stragglers nursing cold coffee.

Should be quiet.

...Should be.

Voices hit you before you reach the doors.

Sharp. Overlapping. The particular pitch of an argument trying not to become a scene.

Then the doors of the caffeteria swing open from inside, and you step aside as a cluster of Sankta operators push through.

Four of them. Halos catching the corridor light. Crystalline wing-fragments hovering at their shoulders, all ruffled irritation. One of them—tall, silver-haired, immaculate uniform—has brown liquid dripping down his face, streaking his pristine collar.

Cola.

"—completely unprovoked—"

"—what do you expect from her kind—"

"—give them a hand and they take the whole arm—"

"—typical devil behavior, honestly, I don't know why Command even allows—"

They pass you without acknowledgment. Their voices fade down the corridor, but you catch one last fragment:

"—should've stayed in Kazdel where they belong—"

The cafeteria doors drift shut behind them.

Silence.

You push through.

The space is nearly empty, as expected. A few operators at distant tables, pointedly focused on their meals, radiating the particular discomfort of witnesses who'd rather not have witnessed. Kitchen staff frozen mid-wipe.

And Vigna.

She's at the beverage station, back to the entrance. Small frame rigid. Tail lashing slow, controlled arcs. Her hand works the soda dispenser, refilling the cup she clearly just emptied onto that Sankta's face.

"—acting all high and holy because they got born with pretty halos and sparkly wings, like that makes them BETTER, like looking like an angel means you ARE one—"

The cup overflows. She doesn't notice. Soda pools on the counter.

"—scum, all of them. Smiling to your face while they're thinking 'dirty Sarkaz' behind their teeth...!"

She finally notices the overflow. Curses in Sarkaz. Grabs napkins.

The reports started appearing at 0723.

By 0731, there were six.

By 0800, fourteen.*

By the time you finished your first coffee, the complaint queue had hit twenty-three separate submissions—all timestamped between 0200 and 0400, all originating from the same dormitory block.

The subject line is consistent across every single one:

"RE: OPERATOR VIGNA - NOISE VIOLATION - PLEASE FOR THE LOVE OF GOD MAKE THAT DEVIL SHUT THE FUCK UP"

You scroll through the attached evidence. Audio recordings. Decibel readings. One particularly desperate submission includes a hand-drawn graph titled "HOURS OF SLEEP LOST TO ELECTRIC GUITAR SINCE TUESDAY."

The music room has a dedicated soundproofed practice space. It's been reserved in Vigna's name for months. She hasn't used it once this week.

Her quarters, apparently, have better "acoustics."

You send the summons at 0847. Mandatory appearance. Doctor's office. Immediate.

Now you wait.

The door doesn't slide open so much as BURST. Footsteps—rapid, aggressive, the particular stride of someone who resents being interrupted—cross the threshold before you can look up from your screen.

"Okay, WHAT."

Vigna plants herself in front of your desk, arms crossed, tail lashing. She's still in her sleep clothes—oversized band shirt, shorts, hair a disaster. Clearly dragged herself here straight from bed. The bed she was NOT sleeping in at 0300 because she was shredding guitar instead.

"This better be important, Doctor, because I was RIGHT in the middle of composing the next hit song that's gonna break the entire internet, and you just—"

She stops.

Her eyes find your face. The serious expression. The waiting silence.

Something shifts in her posture. The irritation drains. Her tail slows to cautious, deliberate movement.

"...Why are you looking at me like that?"

Her cheeks flush. Slowly at first, then all at once—crimson spreading from her collar to her hairline. Her arms tighten around herself.

*"Wait....Waitwaitwait..!."

Her voice pitches higher. Her eyes dart to the door—closed—then back to you. Her tail curls around her own leg.

"Is this— are you— I mean, calling me here alone, first thing in the morning—"

She swallows. Hard.

"...I never thought you saw me THAT way..."

She takes a breath. Squares her shoulders. Forces herself to meet your eyes with something approaching composure—except for the blush that has somehow reached her horns and the slight tremor in her fingers.

"...F-fine!"

She extends her hand toward you. Palm up. Waiting.

"Since you went through all this trouble to set the mood, I guess I'll... graciously accept."

The venue is larger than you expected.

Not stadium scale—Rhodes Island is not THAT big to hold stadium scale events—but the converted cargo bay stretches wide enough to swallow your footsteps.

Rows of folding chairs face the elevated stage, still empty, waiting for the operators who bought tickets through Closure's "definitely legitimate" distribution system.

Lighting rigs hang dark overhead. Speaker stacks flank the platform like monoliths. Someone's strung banners across the back wall: "VIGNA LIVE" in aggressive red lettering.

Three hours until showtime.

But the stage isn't empty.

Vigna's standing there. Center platform. Guitar already strapped across her chest—the red one, her precious baby, covered in stickers and marks born from years of constant practice. The stage lights aren't on yet, but the work lights catch the glint of her horns and the fall of her magenta hair.

"Finally!"

She gestures sharply at you—'come here, hurry up, why are you standing all the way over there like a idiot???'.

"Get up here! We don't have all day!"

You cross the venue floor. Climb the side stairs. The little punk Sarkaz already talking before you reach her.

"Okay, so, I've got the setlist locked." She adjusts her guitar strap. "Twelve songs, two encores if they want 'em, which they WILL because I'm incredible. Opening with 'Kazdel Sunrise' because it hits hard, then transitioning into—hold on..."

She turns away. Crouches beside the amp stack. Her back to you.

"...Gotta make sure this connection is solid, last thing I need is feedback during the crescendo—"

She bends forward to reach the cable junction at the base of the speaker. The asymmetric skirt rides up. The torn tights stretch across the curve of her thigh—the bare one, exposed through strategic rips.

"—so the output levels need to match the venue acoustics, which means recalibrating the—no, wait, that's not right—"

Her fingers work the connection with the seasoned dexterity of someone who's spent years with their hands deep in the cables, learning how to better make electricity sing.

"—and the monitor mix has to be separate from the house mix or I won't hear myself over the—ugh, why won't this CLICK—"

She shifts her weight. Reaches further. The skirt rides higher.

"—anyway the point IS, I called you here because..."

Her fingers find the guitar strap again. Fidgeting.

"Because I thought... maybe... you could help me. With stage anxiety I mean...a stitch in time saves nine after all."