Matte Finish
Part of the Matte Chronicle.

Written by Septia.


“Mhnngnnrmgf…” Met huffed, dipping her cheeks to linger over the deflated burlap sack. -Frrstlffplrlrrssht- a flush of humid emissions, clicking with the crowing of metal, and saturating the air in with the aroma of a smith's coolant bucket: a tinge of burning and a hint of ash, wrapped around boiling dirt and iron. -Crkkrplsldths- Met's hatch undulated, each vibration broadening the brim's blinks, dollops of clear cruising down the wrinkles of the rugose pit, gaping over a nest of glimmers. 
	“Phoa, struggle's in you still, huh? Sure, but it's not gonna be in me much longer,” the satyr said, grabbing a hold. She supported herself against he brick wall behind her, hooves tapping onto the rock below as another whistle of exhuast -Frlrlssths- wound its way out of her brim. -Frrkkrlst- Disturbing the clutch stability… -Chrrllrpthsths- -chrlrspsths- with an orchestra of clangs and clatter, silver coins discharged from the contracting boardening of flesh. The first wave -Cllpclfps- muted in their impact by the fabric, ringing out against one another with a resonance of metal, sprawling out in a patch to cover a couch pillow. 
	“Mmfs, m…,” Met hummed, her tail flapping as the reduced clog of coins bundled up at the rectum. -Chrlrpschs- -Cvhrlrlpsh- With a screech of polishing the sweat out of silver, their brim broadened to and drew back over a bulb of collected coins -Fhrlrlpstrwh-. 
	
The trunk of contorted silver wound out between her cheeks, auburn tufts of her coat scraping against the heap and collecting droplets of bowel dew from the freshly minted currency. -Shrlrlsph- clpssh- droplets of the excess liquids drooling off the loaf, plying its way out through the confines of her hind. -Chrsts- Here and there a coin would be pruned off of the heap, and trickle onto the stack. 
	Met took in a deep breath, stabilizing her intake. Eyes whipping over, down along the alley. “Peepeing-pants pleads punishment,” she huffed out, flecks of slobber flicked out between her gnawed lip. 
	A lad peeked up behind a trash bag with a click of his lips, and resigned his hiding place in front of it. “I'm not here to disturb, but if ya want the audience.” 
	“Phaa. Why couldn't Prachio be here?” Met asked. 
	The stout man shrugged. “Boss's got his business with the hotel.” 
	“Phfsa… crusty cooks can't care to come,” Met mumbled. -Ghrbrlgls- A growl gurgling out of her domed abdomen, sated with a palm dipping into the apron cloaked bulb. 
	-Chrlpsths- -flrlpsths- The bundle burrowed outwards, its bottom breaking past the boundary and bumping into the bale below, -Cfhhrbrs-t -Cbfhrsfwlafa- breaking, burgeoning to billowing bales of breaching booty. The loaf burst through the tide of tokes which traversed the surface, boarding and sloping along one anther — an avalanche of snowboarders. A few on the rim crooked to the vague cylindrical guise, though a majority straight conforming to a uniform angle and thickness. -Fprbbrlflt- From the hefts of scraps escaped pockets of bowel gas, huffing out and lingering over the pile of Satyr minted coins in a funk of rust, and steel-polish derived from olives. 
	Once Met felt the swelling mortar of currency rise to brush her cheeks, she'd stride with a steady palm to the wall, relinquishing a free cascade of coins revolving in the air as they dispatched form her gaping hind. -Clflp-bfhrlrpfhsjs-ts-cklpvklprlts- -Cllpcnkg- a stray coin now and then bounding off the pile and weaving through the air, clapping into the surrounding cobble stone or jamming upright in fractures between the rocks 
	A hint of fluster crept over the lad's masked cheeks. 
	“You're a chick?” 
	“As much as you are, pussy.” Met groaned as she arched her spine back, coming to a full stand. -Chrlpths-cfpsths- a flesh of the pure silver reflecting the sparse evening orange glow on their course to a crash course down the clutter of currency. 
	-Clrtchths- wplclrlrltkts- The last couple dolloped out her brim. Peeping over to the lad Prachio had sent. Her comment not reducing his blush, though making him tug his mask higher. 


-Stwltps-Clrlrpsths- Met smacked her gut, a fold trailing along the apron as the meat muted clutter of the contorted dome rustled within. “That's his share. You can tell Prachio that I'd like to have a word with him about the latest 'fodder', they were a bother to wrangle.” 
	The associate hoisted the sack, shaking it to hear the volume of a melon of silver rustling within. “'And what ya got left in there?” 
	“That's my share.” 
	His eyes went from the back, to Met, eyes narrowing. 
	Met straightened up. “I counted.” 
	This, disarmed the glare. 
	“I wouldn't mind if you wanna shove that head up back here to double count.” 
	“'S fine, 's fine,” he ensured, wiping his brow. “Got 'ta say, boss didn't describe you as tis bitchy.” 
	“I've got an upset tummy,” Met scoffed, “If there'se a missing, consider them my fanny peeking fee.” 
	“Gurah…,” the associate gave off a perplexed grunt, lowering the sack to scratch behind his ear. “Actually, was 'an actual question, didn't 'ake it out.” 
	Met held up a coin, inspecting the venue of sewers imprinted on the pack, details of flowing sewage and rats etched with volume in the precious metal, on the other side a grinning face, though devoid of joy. “Good, keep it that way,” Met said and flicked the coin at him, before turning tail on them. 
	“Sorrey.” 
	It came as he was about to round the corner, giving Met pause. Her chest twisted, particularly under the bandage corset. 
	“Sure. Prachio can come himself next time, if there's another job.” her tone mellowed as she rounded the corner. 


~ 1 ~


Met tugged on her apron, scuffing it back up to buff out around her stomach, masking her gut. There were still some costumers around, she might have stretched her break a touch, though Cofn seemed fine handling the crowd once it got on to evening. Her stride halted as she neared the back-door to the cast-dough bakery. The head windows were dark. 
	A seed of worry sprouted. Met snuck closer, holding her horn so it would not impact the wood as she put her ear to the wall… 
	-Fmmf fmmwf sms-.
	Huffs, a shrivelled puffing of gasps,  alien in their calm… 
	Met's worries… morphed. She brought up a crate of nutritional tofu, using it as leverage to peer through the windows, brushing away the dust. 
	Cofn's outline, by the baking counter, her face shielded by her palms. The oven rustling with the chime peal of hollow iron. 
	Met recognized the noise of hampered tears.  There was a different tone, coming from one of Cofn's nature. A distinction, she should have picked up on sooner. Met's memory brought up fragments of this chiming shudder, an occasional hum in the background, more and more the past few days. 
	Her eyes adapted to the darkness. Her legs sprawled out flat to the ground, body tilting. The behemoth of iron, was toppled like a husk of scrap metal in a ditch. 
	Met swallowed. 
	“Everythin' a'ight`” 
	“Is it ever?” Met responded without acknowledging him. 
	“Fair,” he said, stasging the sack into his backpack, “business 'ever is.” he disappeared from her peripheral vision, soon his footsteps followed. 
	Met remained.


-Chhrrrchhrthc- the door creaked. Cofn caught herself, raising her head from her hands, to turn to Met.
	“D-deora, t-thought you would, head ho-.” 
	“Shh…” met said. -Cllngk- a thump outcast icon rung as the satyr wrapped her arms over Cofn's midriff, sloped over and conforming to her black iron, clutching her tight. A chilling sense of hugging steel beams clad in a single filament sheet of silk reverberated through her nerves, yet Met's embrace remained. 
	“It's ok, boss… Met mumbled, clutching taut. Head gradually tilted back to meet her gaze. “It is 's ok.” 
	“Oooh…” Cofn's sigh slathered with dark blue emotions, but soared through the air as a relieved breeze. She weaved her arms into Met's embrace; together, nested in the dark. 


~ 2 ~


-Jchlzzth- Met perked up at the verified click of the door key. “Look whose back, go those sculpting tools I asked for, bro?” 
	“… Bro.” 
	Tam's leer scrunched up. Eyebrows narrowed as he focused on Met. 
	“I might lose my job.” 
	“…” 
	“This week.” 
	“Got it.”