Work Text:
T’im had seen their kind before. Opposing scions of some influential and emotionally absent family, the two men standing rigidly before a vivid display of laser trowels probably set eyes on each other twice a year – once at the opening salvo of their father’s campaign season and once now. The Midwinter Festival.
The redhead on the left rolled his shoulders: the tight, controlled twitch of a man who stood lost among twenty feet of tessellating laser trowels, but was trying very hard to look as though he were not. They were here to shop, these men, but, T’im knew, this was also their battlefield. T’im knew their type. He knew every type and he knew them from twenty paces. Not for nothing was he the youngest Regional Manager in the vast and storied history of Gunnings.
“Excuse me, Sirs.” T’im stepped neatly into their two-man parade formation. As one, they swiveled to stare at him. The redhead was still in uniform, clearly fresh from work despite the holidays, with a pale, sour-milk face in a pinched expression. The other was dressed like an aesthete, great bunches of dark hair flapping about his sulky face. Both looked as if the only DIY they had ever embarked upon was leaving the office to issue orders personally, rather than simply screaming them down the tannoy.
T’im smiled the insipid, ingratiating smile of customer service.
“Can I help you gentlemen find anything?” he asked.
“No,” the dark haired one all but cried, at the same moment his brother said: “We are here for a gift.” Then they turned to stare furiously at each other. T’im said nothing, his face a meticulously bland mask which had taken years to perfect. Not for nothing had he risen through Gunnings’ managerial strata like a rocket breaking orbit.
T’im was about to interrupt their mutual glaring with the kind of suggestion that had elevated him from Junior Floor Manager to Assistant Stocking Commandant in under a month, but the redhead wasn’t done talking.
“We are shopping,” he said in a voice that was trying to colonise the rim worlds, even as it was bouncing off a shelf of self-watering pots, “for a most important man.”
At this, the dark haired one glowered in a more pronounced fashion, but he offered no input, save an almost palpable sense of holiday rage. A father, T’im thought. One they were both desperate to impress, and from whom they needed wildly differing kinds of approval. Which they hoped could be bought in the form of a Cordless Impact Skull Driver. Two days before Midwinter. T’im sighed, but only internally. Not for nothing was he leading the entire sales team in the annual Holiday Sticker Chart competition.
“Your – this man,” he said. “Does he enjoy the satisfaction of a self-build, or would he prefer something preconstructed.” T’im knew the answer, but it was best to seem as though you were asking. That done, he pressed immediately on. “For the man with great taste, but little time, we have just debuted a new line of Automatic Electro-Plasma Praetorian Garden features –”
“No.” The redhead barked it; his brother emitted something closer to a yelp. For the first time, they appeared wholly united on a subject.
“No, thank you,” the redhead added on a long exhale. He sounded as though he were trying to force Basic onto the Falleen. “We do not need any more of … those.”
The dark haired one grimaced in an entirely over dramatic fashion and stared hard into the depths of a near-by ornamental lava pool.
“Well,” T’im said, recovering as fast as he could from this unexpected stumble. “If he would prefer to keep a, ah, tighter hand on his yard accessories and accoutrements, might I suggest our top-of-the-line Per-gun-la? Five mounted vibro-cannons, all operated from the central dais, which tastefully retracts into an open and airy living space. It’s a very easy build, and it makes a beautiful and highly secure vantage point from which to enjoy a family Christmas.”
The pair looked quietly revolted, but they twisted in silent conference, the redhead nodding slightly and then more violently and then physically reaching for his brother before stopping himself and spinning on perfectly polished heel back to face T’im.
“An easy build, you say?” he asked.
“Of course.” T’im clicked his elongated, elegant fingers and there was a scuffling sound, as of a small body hurling itself through various cardboard boxes, carnivorous ferns, and acid-proofed watering cans. Then store-assistant Eryk Farr, his fur curling into his eyes, his company flat-cap wedged tight over his ears, appeared at T’im’s side.
“Mr. Farr, the three-six-seven, if you please?”
The ewok grunted in assent and disappeared again. T’im smiled mildly at his customers, who continued to look as though they were on the verge of some kind of familial break-down. T’im refrained from asking them if they were all prepared for the Festival. Not for nothing was he the only employee to sustain no injuries in the great Purple Centaxday Calamity of ’89.
After a short, but intensely uncomfortable wait, Eyrk reappeared, followed by a large box which seemed to be progressing under its own steam. T’im knew it was, in fact, being propelled by a team of ewoks, plus one creature he was fairly certain was a wookiee toddler, but this knowledge had never diminished the spectacle.
He gestured to the box as it pulled to a halt, and immediately a small blue hologram leapt from its barcode, showing clearly the eight-hundred separate pieces that combined to form the Per-gun-la. In miniature, they flew together as though by magnetism, and the tiny flickering guns started pounding uselessly at some unseen enemy.
“As you can see, Gentlemen,” he said, “a perfectly simple undertaking. Of course, every kit comes complete with a socket wrench, an Aelln Key, and a hand-held Kyber welder.”
The men in front of him seemed to be trying very hard to experience absolutely no facial expressions. T’im pressed on. “And once constructed, the Per-gun-la offers complete, three-sixty protection from any disturbance to the user’s tranquility, from roaming splice-deer, to stray droids, to those unwanted Christmas visitors and relations. Ha ha. Ha ha.”
Both men now visibly paled, which quite a feat for the one on the left. “Hux,” the other whispered urgently. “I have a very bad feeli-”
‘Hux’ threw up a hand. “Stop it,” he said in quiet tones that bordered on polite hysteria. “We talked about this, Ren.” He rolled his Rs like they were an enemy he was flipping onto its back to stab. To T’im, he said. “Yes, we’ll take it thank you.”
T’im offered his second-best smile, the one he used when a purchase had been agreed upon. It took up fewer mental resources and allowed the maxillofacial muscles a brief respite. Not for nothing was he the only Manager who could work the entire week’s lead-up to Midwinter without suffering any form of mental catastrophe.
“Excellent,” he said. “Now, we have a wonderful shipping program, can I organize –”
“Oh, that won’t be necessary,” said Hux, a slow smile now spreading across his pallid features. There was nothing, thought T’im, to ease the soul like a Festival gift successfully found. This Hux then flicked a wrist at his brother, who sighed deeply and raised his own hand in a slow gesture that dripped with petulance.
As he did so, the Per-gun-la box also lifted gently from its ewok rollers and drifted languidly towards the pair. T’im opened and then shut his mouth.
“The registers are to the front of the store, yes?” Hux asked, obviously pleased to have regained the upper hand. Without waiting for an answer, he strolled away. In a nearly visible cloud of anger, his brother followed. Behind them both, the Per-gun-la wafted across the warehouse floor, occasionally bumping gently into displays or other customers.
T’im watched until all three were through the wide register, out the sliding doors, past the gold credit donation Sandmaggot Sizzle, into the chaotic parking bay, and then gone on the hazy horizon. Only then, did he allow himself a single, deep breath.
“Eryk,” T’im said. “Please affix another star to my chart.”