“What’re the dipshits arguing about now?”
“Disrespectful,” mutters Alex, not looking up from the felyne-sized repair kit spread out on the table before him. Proxy considers this carefully before hopping up next to him and punching him in the shoulder. “Ow! What the hell is your problem?”
“I don’t know Marco’s fucked up dialect,” Proxy says pleasantly, leaning onto the table to paw at a loose curl of leather cord. “Furthermore I refuse to learn it. But I am an inveterate gossip, and if I don’t know what they’re talking about, I’ll die.”
Alex’s eyes slide to where Proxy’s already are: the two humans camped out by the canteen. They are nothing short of a sorely mismatched pair, one pale and scrawny and the other thick-set with dark skin and hair. Fray and Marco. As Proxy has noted, they seem to be in the midst of a rapid, contentious dialogue, though it is totally silent. Wyverian Sign is far from unheard of in the New World, but it’s rare enough that seeing a full conversation being carried out with it is a surprise. Or it would be, if Alex did not see this nearly every day. He gives a long-suffering sigh, and points at where Marco sits perched on the canteen table, much to the dismay of the server trying to take his tray. His expression is fierce and intent, hands all but slicing the air as he signs. “Marco is holding the position that red monsters are the most annoying kind. I think he’s basing it on the fact that he doesn’t like red fruit.” Alex swivels his hand so his clawed finger now points at Fray, who sits on the ground with his sword unsheathed and laid on his lap. A polishing rag lies atop it, forgotten as he signs with equal vehemence. “Fray is calling Marco a dumbass because he thinks anything with wings is much worse to fight. Happy?”
“Thrilled,” says Proxy, making no move to stop Alex as he swipes away the leather cord from her reach. “They are so fucking stupid. I’m going to suffocate Fray in his sleep.” She says it with such immense fondness that one might be forgiven for failing to notice the meaning of her actual words.
“Please don’t.”
“And I’ll frame Marco. I’ll smush up strawberries and cover Fray’s corpse in them. Then I’ll take his place as hunter and you can be my Palico because they’ll feed Marco to a deviljho for murder. Easy.”
“Have you gotten me those kelbi pelts I asked for yet?”
“What? No. What? Why do you need pelts? You never asked me that.” Proxy squints at him. “That’s a lie. I forgot. No, that’s a lie too. I didn’t want to. Also I forgot why you wanted them.”
Alex, his ears flat against his skull, stares at her. “I need them,” he says carefully, “to make the new gear that you asked for.”
“Oh, I just thought you weren’t going to do it. What are they talking about now?”
Heaven help him. Alex looks back at the canteen, where the server has begun yowling. “They’re not talking. They’re trying to kick the shit out of each other.”
“Money on Marco. Five hundred zenni he suffocates Fray-Fray by sitting on him with that enormous ass.”
As Alex watches, the two hunters continue their silent scuffle. Marco, on top, does appear to be leveraging his weight. Below him Fray is kicking like a rabbit that intends to disembowel its opponent. Alex smooths back his whiskers and says, “Five hundred on Marco getting kicked in the dick again.”
“Deal.”