"I regret this. Why do you Cabal people all have to wear this stinking crap into the base?"
Anna's voice echoed through the cramped cabin, filled with restrained but undisguised disgust.
She huddled in a corner of the cabin, draped in an oversized dark brown robe. Its fabric was as coarse as sackcloth, its edges badly frayed, and it gave off a complicated mixture of mildew, sweat, and some unidentifiable chemical.
She pinched the robe's collar, keeping it as far from her nose as possible.
Beside her, Grom wore a similar cloak, but the sight was even more ridiculous.
The dwarf's squat, stocky body was wrapped tightly in the robe. Its hem trailed over half a meter along the floor, bunching around his feet and threatening to trip him whenever he walked.
Before every step, he had to kick the fabric out of his way, looking both clumsy and irritated.
His beard protruded from beneath the hood, gleaming dark red in the dim light and clashing with the shabby robe in a way that was hard to describe.
"How should I know?" Nibelung answered from the pilot's seat without turning around, his tone helpless.
"Everyone I saw in the Cabal dressed like this, so I figured, when in Rome. They said it makes you less noticeable and harder to lock onto with psychic energy. I think this thing's ugly and stinks too, but those are the rules."
"What the hell is wrong with those Cabal guys? Are they trying to be edgy?" Anna continued complaining, pinching a corner of the robe as though she were holding a dead rat.
"Even a servitor in a garbage heap has better taste. Do they think dressing like this makes them look mysterious and cool?"
"Maybe." Nibelung shrugged, leaving the subject there.
Through the