The Hand That Mocked Them

Kivvien greeted him politely and moved to the work station he had set up.

"Are we going into the sick house today? he asked absently.

"Yes, I suppose. Do you have any knowledge about what viruses are currently an issue for the town?"

(gettin topical lol)

(Hope there's no covid about)

"I don't get out much," he admitted. "Crimson Iris is always a common one. Probably Cornfever as well."

So nothing too serious. They would have to modify it anyway, so mutating it into something more severe wasn't too much of a problem.

"I see. Would you like to come with, or would you rather I go alone while you continue working here alone?"

"I'll come along. You don't know the town, after all. I've lived here awhile." He looked down at himself and shrugged off his robe so he was only wearing a tattered jacket and undershirt and his pair of badly darned trousers.

Kivvien looked him over. His own clothes, which had been traveled in for days, were in much better condition. "Do you have anything more presentable to wear?"

He frowned at Kivvien. "Maybe. Why?"

"Do not take this as an insult, but you look as though you've worn the same secondhand clothes for a decade. It takes away from your credibility."

Laurean looked down at himself, bristling. "The homunculus was in charge of repairing my clothing," he muttered, stalking off to his bedroom.

"There is no amount of repair that would salvage those clothes."

He ignored him completely, shutting the door. He returned a few minutes later with a similar outfit, but in slightly better condition.

Kivvien had filled that time preparing another sample of living flesh. He looked up when the old man returned. It was...the best he was going to get.

"Is this satisfactory?" he asked irritably.

"If it's the best you have," Kivvien said disappointedly. This man truly had no grasp of optics.