My Bad Boy Werewolf Quadrillionaire Space Lord

Armoured Up

Valerie took the loonie out of my hands with a smirk so smug Luca could have lent it to her. She was about to put it in a pocket, but apparently, women's clothing isn't designed to carry around the bare essentials of a girl's life.

You know, just the basic stuff that goes into a girl's purse. Wallet, smartphone, lip gloss, two shades of lipstick, eyeliner, concealer, headache medication, taser, a year's worth of receipts, breath mints, keys, three sets of earrings, toothbrush and toothpaste, a couple of snacks...

Come to think of it, why are cargo pants a guy thing? They don't even use the five pockets their jeans come with.

"Oh come on," I said. "Val, you're a fashion designer! You don't have a single pocket?"

"Functionality is the first casualty of fashion, darling," Valerie replied as she set the loonie on the table. "But what you're wearing right now isn't fashion. It's style."

"What's the difference?" I asked.

"Oh darling," Valerie said with a sad shake of her head. Like a teacher trying to convince a student that two and two isn't twenty-two. "Fashion is a seasonal expression of your fidelity to your culture. By being fashionable, you express your commitment to other people's tastes and sensibilities."

"Wait, isn't fashion about these absurd costumes that you strut around in on a runway? A bunch of crap no one would ever buy?" I asked.

"Also true," Valerie conceded. "But that is fashion's way of trying to expand what is fashionable, so that it casts a wider net. So that more people can fit in without having to change who they are."

"Wait, what?" I asked, shaking my head in confusion. "You encourage people to conform to an ideal with a constantly-shifting goalpost so that people who don't fit-in end up becoming fashionable?"

"Precisely. Fashion is a way to help get prejudiced assholes to appreciate difference," Valerie summarized. "Plus it's an excuse to make people look fabulous. Now, while we wait for Luca, and since we've done just enough talking to pass the Bechtel Test, how about you help me make a shirt for him."

"I'd help, but I know less about fashion than I do about relativity," I pleaded, shaking my hands.

Valerie frowned at me. "Darling, you fly a spaceship. Relativity is literally part of space travel. Now come here, and tell me what I keep on getting wrong about Luca."

I frowned as I sat down, and tried to make sense of the blueprint sketched out on the computer. It was difficult to imagine a full picture, but it looked like Valerie was making a button-down of some kind. Only the material was practically metallic, and somehow embossed with an intricate design of a wolf's head. And had enough gold wire and diamond buttons to buy a spaceship.

"That looks..." I began to say.

"All wrong?" Valerie admitted. "Luca's always been hard to figure out. The man thinks diamonds are a racket made up by the diamond industry to sustain an intrinsically worthless product."

"Spoken like a true bachelor," I scoffed.

"He's right, though. Diamond engagement rings are a custom made up by the wedding industry, and diamond mining still helps finance terrorism and genocide," Valerie said in an off-handed sort of way, like she was just talking about the weather.

"Are you serious?"

"Yep. Every woman who forced their fiancé to spend three months of their salary on a worthless lump of carbon was financing warlords, billionaire orgies, global warming sceptics, anti-vaccination campaigns and flat-earth societies."