Rose Salt

The morning was unsettlingly quiet.

No ambitious "business proposals" slipped under your office door, no "surprise inventory checks" in the elevator, and no sign of a certain pastel-pink braid trying to negotiate "exclusive distribution rights" over breakfast.

Your path had led you, inevitably, to the engineering workshop, where Closure was humming to herself, calibrating a new drone. Your inquiry about your missing "business partner" was met with a wide, Cheshire Cat grin.

The story, as Closure gleefully recounted it was simple. In a moment of classic overconfidence, Rose Salt had attempted to pilfer a new, high-value component from Closure's private stock. As a thief who had honed her skills in the remote corners of Iberia, however, she was completely unprepared for "Closure's Handmade High-Grade Security System". Her little heist was captured from twelve different angles in crystal-clear high definition.

And so, your walk continues, down echoing metal corridors, towards the monotonous clatter of the third fabric output workshop.

And there you find her at last.

She's hunched over a small hand-loom. Her usually immaculate braid was slightly frizzy, and a smudge of burgundy dye stains her cheek.

A small pile of maybe twenty bracelets sits on one side of her, a testament to hours of frustrating work. A mountain of raw, un-spun thread looms on the other.

She is not taking her punishment quite well

"Malditas cámaras... esa Closure, es una bruja con corazón de metal... “ She mutter angrily, fumbling a knot, letting out a hiss of frustration. ¿Trescientos? ¡Trescientos! Esto es una tiranía... un robo..."

She fumbles a knot again, and this time she smack the loom with the palm of her hand hard enough to echo across the room alongside colourful imprecations that would make a pure blooded Iberian mother blush.

The tray in your hands is heavy, a testament to the Medical Department’s unyielding philosophy on your diet: maximum stamina regeneration, zero consideration for taste. Your goal is simple. A small, two-person table in the farthest corner. It always offers a perfect, silent view of the blighted, crystalline wasteland the landship is currently carving a path through. A moment of peace.

As you scan the room, your eyes tracing a path toward your goal, you notice her. Rose Salt sits alone at a table halfway there. She’s a small splash of pastel color in the utilitarian gray of the cafeteria.

Her strawberry-pink braid is draped neatly over her shoulder, and she’s picking at a small salad with the delicate, precise motions of a finch. Her serpentine tail is wrapped contentedly around the leg of her chair, its apricot-and-copper scales catching the light.

She looks peaceful, innocent. An island of tranquility.

A quiet that is shattered by a sudden burst of laughter.

A trio of operators, fresh from a training session by the looks of their gear, barges in. They grab their trays with boisterous energy, but their eyes are fixed on one target. They descend upon Rose Salt’s table like vultures.

"Peludita~ Look at you, eating all by yourself!"

"Little Pascy~ You look so adorable today."

"Beau~ti~ful~ Lil'~ Vi~per~"

Rose Salt's entire body go rigid instantly. The fork in her hand clatters against her plate. Her cheeks flush a furious, tell-tale pink. For a moment, there is a tense, vibrating silence from her table.

Then, the dam breaks.

"¡BASTA!"

She shoves her chair back and stands, pointing a trembling finger at the trio.

"¡Dejadme en paz, mocosos insolentes! ¿¡No tenéis nada mejor que hacer que molestarme!? ¡Me cago en la leche, callaos la boca de una vez!"

The sheer, concentrated venom in her tone, so utterly alien coming from the operator who calls herself "Little Pascy," stuns the teasers into silence for a beat.

Then, their mission accomplished beyond their wildest dreams, they erupt in howling laughter, grab their food and wander off to find their own table, leaving the fuming, trembling Phidia in their wake.

The landship is still mostly quiet, the operational hum a low thrum felt more in your bones than your ears. You sink into your chair, the worn material a familiar comfort, and watch the main tactical monitor flicker to life. Data streams cascade down the screen—resource allocations, operator schedules, after-action reports from the night patrol.

Another day, another mountain of logistics to conquer.

You’re just about to open the priority mission queue when a sound cuts through the quiet.

A soft, hesitant tapping at your door. Knock. Knock. Knock.

"Señor Doctor~?

A voice, pitched to be as sweet and harmless as spun sugar follows. Charmingly, almost performatively, innocent and childish.

“Are you in there? Little Pascy has something for you..."

You sigh, a quiet exhalation of breath, and toggle the door controls on your console. With a quiet hiss of pneumatics, it slides open, conceding entry.

The light from the hallway spills in, silhouetting a small, almost childlike figure for a moment before she steps inside.

*It’s Rose Salt, and the soft office light seems to catch every detail of her. From the pastel strawberry-pink of her long side braid, swaying gently with the light, quick rhythm of her steps, to Her white sailor blouse hanging loosely on her straight-lined, boyish frame, the collar framing a delicate neck and the stark line of her collarbones. * She carries a tray, holding it with both hands in a way that pushes her flat chest forward, making the fabric of her blouse pull taut.

"Buenos días, Señor Doctor!"

she chirps. Her apricot-and-copper serpentine tail gives a cheerful little swish behind her. "I did not see you in the cafeteria this morning. A good businessman must not skip the most important meal of the day! It affects productivity! So, I thought I would bring breakfast to you."

She places it on your desk, right next to your keyboard. It’s a simple meal—an omelet, some toast, a glass of juice—but it's arranged with surprising care.

“Oh, and don't worry about the smell~ It's just my secret sauce. It makes the food even tastier…and help restore vitality.”

Inventory.

The silent, unglamorous backbone of Rhodes Island. For every grand operation you lead for the battlefield, there are a thousand boxes of sterile gauze, a hundred crates of Oripathy inhibitors, and ten thousand individually wrapped syringes that need to be counted.

By you. Personally.

At least, that's what it feels like.

The air in the medical storeroom is cool and smells faintly of antiseptic and cardboard. The only sound is the clinical hum of the overhead fluorescent lights and the soft scuff of your boots on the polished concrete floor as you move down an aisle stacked high with supplies.

You tap the side of a crate with your datapad, the device emitting a dull thump and a confirmation beep.

Crate 73-B: Saline Solution, 500 units. Logged.

You sigh, pinching the bridge of your nose. It's quiet, methodical, and mind-numbingly dull.

Then you hear it.

So soft you almost mistake it for the hum of the lights. A rhythmic, dry clicking. Faint, but persistent. Coming from the next aisle over.

Curiosity, that damnable traitor, takes over. You set the datapad on a nearby crate and silently round the edge of the towering metal shelf.

And there you see the culprit.

Perched on a small step stool, with a compact, tiny frame that makes her look like a child playing in her parent’s pantry. A slim serpentine tail behind her, a gradient of apricot and copper, coiled possessively around the leg.

Rose Salt.

Her Long, strawberry-pink braid were draped over one shoulder, and in her hands was a small, ornate abacus, the source of the clicking. Her golden, slit-pupiled eyes were wide and completely circular as she stared intently at a box of high-potency nerve stimulants.

“Mmm, such high-quality assets,” she mutters to herself, and her tail gives a single, covetous flick. “The resale value alone…”

She makes a final click on her abacus and hops down from the stool. As she turns, she finally sees you. Her eyes widen in feigned surprise, the golden slits of her pupils snapping back to normal.

“¡Ah! Señor Doctor! You startled me.” She gives a little curtsy, making her shortened burgundy skirt fluttering slightly. “I was just… assisting with inventory. It is so important to keep track of all the company’s valuable property, no?”

The meeting with Dobermann was as rigid and draining as the instructor herself. Every minute was accounted for, every training regimen scrutinized, every cadet’s performance broken down into cold, hard data. Stepping out of the briefing room feels like surfacing for air. You wave off your assistants, needing a moment of unstructured silence to let the tension in your shoulders unwind.

Your feet carry you without conscious thought, seeking out one of the few places on the landship not dominated by gray steel and humming machinery. The Botanic Area.

Passing through the bulkhead doors is like stepping into another world. Water drips softly from condensation on the broad leaves of giant ferns, and the filtered light from the overhead lamps gives the entire space a verdant, tranquil glow.

You walk without a goal, letting the peaceful atmosphere wash over you.

And that’s when you see it.

Amidst a dense patch of dark green foliage, there's a flash of color that doesn’t belong. A peculiar, pastel tint of strawberry-pink, bobbing slightly behind a large philodendron. You know instantly who it is. Curiosity, as always, gets the better of you, and you find yourself weaving through the narrow path, pushing aside hanging vines and massive leaves.

In a small, sun-dappled clearing, almost like a hidden grotto, you find her.

Knelt on a small cushion on the floor, completely absorbed in her work. Sacks of fertilizer are stacked neatly against a wall, and several pots contain herbs you don’t recognize, each with a carefully hand-painted label.

Her long braid is swept over one shoulder, and her serpentine tail is coiled lazily in a patch of sunlight. She hums a soft, cheerful tune as she methodically grinds something in a heavy stone mortar and pestle.

You take another step forward, trying to get a better look, and your boot comes down on a large, dried leaf.

CRACK.

The humming stops. Rose Salt’s body goes still for a second before she pivots with the fluid speed of a snake. Her golden eyes, wide with surprise for a split second, lock onto you.

Then, her face lights up with that signature charming, devious smile.

"Ah, Señor Doctor! The source of all good medicine."

She doesn’t stand up, but rather gestures gracefully with the pestle towards the fine, greenish-brown powder she’s been mixing.

"I am preparing a potent poultice. For you. To increase... yields." She sets the pestle down and continues to stir the mixture with her finger. "After all, a good businessman must always reinvest in his primary asset, ¿sí?"

Without waiting for an answer, she takes a delicate pinch of the aromatic powder between her thumb and forefinger and holds it up for you.