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Flint turns— and finds himself facing the ship’s cat, trotting along the baseboards toward the kitchen, tail high.
They pause.
…the pause stretches, neither of them willing to blink or look away.
“Fuckin’ idiots, the lot of them,” he says, gesturing with his head- maybe at the squabble happening behind him, maybe at the whole of his crew.
She stares up at him with sharp yellow eyes, lamplike and unblinking.
Then she flicks her tail in a way that somehow feels dismissive and slinks away. Flint watches her dark rear end vanish into the shadows.
A competent ratter and mouser, that one, according to the men. She moves through the ship utterly without fear, like she commands respect- because she does. Nobody likes rat shit in their food.
Flint turns and strides down the corridor, in the opposite direction.