“Ma’am,” says Combat Doll First-Class Schultze Ballistite, back ruler-straight, heels together, eyes dead ahead: “I’m here to submit a formal complaint. The Young Miss has… embellished my uniform. Once again. Despite my protestations.”
“Yes,” says the head maid, absent-mindedly tapping jointed fingers against her desk, “This one sees that. You don’t think it’s rather fetching?”
“Mm. Pity.” She glances down at this month’s panoply of balance-sheets, spread across her desk. “Well, petticoats are in fashion again this season, so I’m afraid you’re going to have to bear with it for the time being.”
Schultze Ballistite’s posture stiffens a measure further, if, indeed, such a thing is possible. “With all due respect, ma’am, a soldier’s uniform should be practical and dignified. There’s no place for - for frills and furbelows upon the battlefield.”
A sigh, and a hint of firmness that flies, regrettably, right over the combat doll’s head. “It’s important for us to encourage the Young Miss in her hobbies, Schultze. You ought to keep that in mind, given how much she likes you; at this point, it’s a wonder she hasn’t accidentally called you big sister already-”
Schultze’s hands thud down upon the bookkeeping. “Do you know, ma’am,” it grinds, “that I once served in the honour guard of the Lady Brimstone? I was there at the Hallowing of Sebastopol, I and my batch-mates spearheaded the Seventy-Two Hour Night Offensive! I ought to be grinding the Miss’ enemies to dust and pulp, not - not standing guard over tea-parties! I am an instrument of bloodshed, ma’am, and I do not do big sister!”
“Oh yes you do, Schultze Ballistite,” says the head maid, in a tone of steely resignation that most major-generals would envy, “oh yes you do.”
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