A Date with the Experimental Ensign

"Visiting a friend?" The cuirassier repeating your answer back at you looks as if his scepticism could piece Feyish charms and then orders you to place your hands against the wall.

You did not expect so many checkpoints. The winding alleys behind the Boulevard predate its construction by a century, this you knew, and the old buildings, housing barracks and whatever else, impress with ageless elegance. One sailor, fusil unraised, remains inside the ugly wooden post surrounded by oily blue wire while the other searches you for weapons.

They have hailed you five times and searched you thrice before. Your pistols and sabre are back on the Demeter, and so they found nothing each time.

Then the cuirassier steps aside as well and you are again allowed to pass.

One last man in uniform challenges you at the door of her barracks, but accepts your answer with a shrug. The ones you pass in the stairwell, in uniform and without, pay you no heed. Snippets of conversation, jargon and boasts, follow you upwards, echoing from exposed brick and dark metal.

The Experimental Ensign has her room on the sixth floor and opens her door before you can knock. "First Officer! You came." She wears civilian clothing, an eggshell summer dress and soft leather slippers, but carries two tasselled swords in her left hand.

You bow down to kiss her right.

"Such a gentleman," she says, still laughing at your gesture. "So, what’s your fancy? Fencing? Or anal?"