Dolce studied the drawing of their potential crew. His attentions wavered between intense scrutiny and downright forgetfulness, tracing the shape of a leg as he silently mouthed sums and figures, only to return to that spot moments later. Every inch was scrutinized thrice over, at a minimum, before he asked, “Are we sure this is what we want?”

Vasilia quirked an eyebrow. “[i]Are[/i] we?”

“Ah. There could be a slightly more civilized planet along the way that we could visit, and still stop Birmingham from destroying their world. We should not feel as though we are forced to choose them.”

Her smirking gaze bore down on him. Unchanged.

Dolce cleared his throat quietly. “The...less familiar with the rest of the galaxy they are, there’s just so much room for things to get messy. Surely, we would want to get a crew as easily as we can, yes? We wouldn’t want to borrow any more trouble.”

Vasilia slowly closed her eyes. Pondered this wisdom. Let her mind take in the realm of the possible, the impossible, and all that lay in-between. And said, “Are you worried they’ll try to marry you off again?”

“It was one time!”

“Oh, if you say so.”

[i]“Pardon?”[/i]

“Anyway, I’m positive it will be just fine. I’ll duel any suitors for your honor, of course.”

Dolce replied with a most expressive series of squeaking bleats, slightly muffled as he buried his face in his hands.

“I believe what my Chef Mate is trying to say,” Vasilia translated helpfully. “Is that they will do nicely.”