Night anxiously fidgets, twisting her hairless tail inside its polymer lining. The blue cavity she resides in squeezes tight as Saint Eren waits in the airlock.
"You are tense," the great opossum observes, "Relax, my love. We will be fine."
The stomach lining holding her presses in from the bottom up, propelling her back into the tight tube above, leaving the sanctuary of thick armor plates as she slides out from Eren's jaws into her waiting metal hands.
The rat sits herself upright, trying to expose as much of her suit as she can to the decontamination nozzles washing saliva off herself, and blood and oil off the saint. As compressed air blow dries them off, she clambers up to drape herself over her shoulder, caressing the fluff of her cheek right behind the edge of the mask.
The doors open, and Eren's guards are already there on the other side to salute her on entry, as she was the last to haul herself out of the train. Ceiling lamps cast her in stark lighting, but nothing reflects off those dark, expressionless eyes. Night is the only one who knows she's anxious too.
Together they move through the claustrophobic interior of the ship, along the length of it, but the door they're bound for is blocked by another soldier, one of the few in here who could stand anywhere close to eye level with Eren. She turns her head, indicating the room to the right.
"Sire Mertran wishes to see you."
"Naturally," Eren emanates, turning as prompted. A shorter, connecting hallway takes her through another set of sliding doors.
The room beyond is compact, especially so with another morph already inside, kneading something on a long desk. It would be compact for most people on this ship, but for Night and its usual inhabitant, the space is more than enough.
"Eren," a voice greets her. "...plus one. She can go.
"Teovald," she returns. "She will stay."
The other morph, a raccoon, circles around the desk, continuing to finger-massage Teovald as he does, who lies there on a mat, turning his head to look at Eren properly. The maned wolf's eyes narrow, zeroing in on the rat on Eren's shoulder; even if he concedes, it's important to him that she feel unwelcome.
Night doesn't care. She pulls off her helmet, securing it to a carabiner and beginning to fluff her pale, speckled fur with no concern for the sire's hostile decorum.
"This wasn't easy to coordinate, you know," Teovald says through an exaggerated sigh.
"I am aware," Eren replies simply.
"...Would you sit?" he asks, extending a hand toward the alcove most would use as a bed, but here it's been furnished more like a bench for guests. "I already dislike looking at you enough when I don't have to crane my neck."
"I will stand," the opossum insists.
"Fucking Lurrah, you never make this easy for either of us," he groans, but it ends on a pleasured cadence as his attendant pops his lower back. "Ondria isn't going to be pleased with you, are you also aware of that?"
This time, the opossum says nothing. As subtle as she can, Night puts a soothing hand on her neck. Eren hates this Nayrean fool, vain, treacherous, and condescending in equal measure.
"Because," the maned wolf begins, making space for another entirely too gratuitous moan as the masseuse pops another joint, "leaving Dominion airspace is easy, and entering it is hard. It's not as if there are many defectors having second thoughts so close to a Warden's chest anymore, is it? That was all of them, Eren. And you let the void siphon slip through those big, creaky fingers of yours. What are you going to tell Ondria?"
YOU ARE READING
Nobody's Servant 1.0
Science Fiction[vore and g/t warning, details below] Held together by repurposed machinery and preserved undead flesh, Merion is an unwilling means to an end, desperately trying to escape the crossfire of two totalitarian empires with apocalyptic intent. Their all...
