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Summary
Adrian lingers at the entrance of Rocky's workshop, clicking their claws nervously.
"The Recordkeepers took Grace away earlier," they chitter. "They had him try on his mating ceremony outfit. Apparently, the tailors finished it just a few cycles ago."
Rocky stills—his tools hovering precariously over half-soldered xenonite, current task forgotten. Equal parts dread and desire wash over him, and he shudders at the mental waveform being conjured. "And what did you think?"
Softly and sadly, Adrian admits, "Grace sounded beautiful in it. Beautiful in the sense that a butterfly is beautiful when its wings are pinned to a base for display. A gorgeous specimen, twisted to fit standards it was never meant to conform to."
Or: Arranged marriages are common practice on Erid. It should come as no surprise when Rocky and Adrian are made to take Grace as their mate.