My Bad Boy Werewolf Quadrillionaire Space Lord

Fashion v Style

Valerie led me into a large room with pretty much an entire mall's worth of clothing, where she began to pick through pieces seemingly at random, humming happily to herself.

"We'll have to work a bit, obviously. I work with models, darling, and as lovely as they are, most of them don't actually occupy the third dimension," Valerie said, as she picked up a shirt and pressed it to my chest. Frankly, she was a fair bit handsier than I was comfortable with, but I decided to give her a little more leeway before I broke her nose.

"But the key to looking absolutely smashing in high-society, darling, is putting a lot of effort into saying 'I don't give a fuck'," Valerie explained. "The more what you wear says 'I don't care about your opinion because you're scum', the better."

"Isn't that a paradox?" I asked. "Putting effort into not caring?"

"It's an oxymoron, darling," Valerie replied, waving her hand.

"What's the difference? I've never been clear on that."

"Oxymorons actually happen. Now, darling, do you know the first step in telling people their opinions mean less to you than the dirt on the bottom of your shoes?" Valerie asked.

I stopped and pondered for a moment. "I, uh, no I don't."

Valerie nodded in approval. "It's honesty. We only lie because we care about other people's opinions."

"And not getting caught," I added.

Valerie smirked. "That's just caring about the opinions of people who can put you in prison. Now, keep in mind that this goes against my entire industry, since everything I do is based around ensuring that people give a fuck. Fashion is all about looking like you're aloof and indifferent while you're terrified that someone will notice you're slightly less than perfect, and I make a killing on that closeted inferiority complex."

"That's kinda awful."

"The real tragedy is the boatloads of money I'm paid to make shirts that sit in Luca's closet. I can't even say they collect dust, because the air purification technology on his yachts prevents that from happening. They just sit there, as clean and pressed as the first day I stitched them because I can never make a shirt good enough to cover up those magnificent abs," Valerie said morosely, and she dabbed at her eyes with her shirt.

"Woah," I said, surprised. It really hadn't occurred to me that anyone could be sad about Luca Cardego's bare chest.

"But it's good, I get to challenge myself. Now for you, darling, we need to start by knowing who you are," Valerie said, and she turned around to stop me in the middle of the room. "The simplest and hardest question we could ever be asked, no?"

"Yeah," I said, scratching my head awkwardly. "I mean, I guess I'm a freighter pilot. That's really what I do."

"What you do to pay for beer is not who you are. But you have your own ship?"

"Sort of. Her name was Nightmare, but I crashed her on Mars. Luca said he'd pay to have her repaired if I helped him uncover the mystery of something we found on his planet, but honestly, I'm hoping I can bargain him into getting me a new ship instead," I explained.

"So you have a ship named Nightmare, and a necklace with an eyepatch?" Valerie asked with a sly grin. "And you've never threatened anyone with the railguns your ship definitely didn't have? Be honest with me, darling, you're a pirate."

"Occasionally," I admitted.

"So we're closer, but that isn't who you really are. Now let me ask you, when were you last happiest? And not like seeing Luca without a shirt happy, but what were you doing?"