"Slow down." Dravok didn't move from where he stood. "Before any of that, I need to see what I'm working with. Strip. Down to your shorts."
Trafalgar looked at him, certain for a second he'd misheard.
Dravok said nothing more. He simply waited, patient as stone, the request already made and in no danger of being repeated.
It wasn't worth arguing over. Rhosyn turned away without being asked, giving him the small courtesy of her back, and Trafalgar began pulling off his coat and the layers under it, until he stood on the black ground in nothing but his shorts, the cold of the place raising no gooseflesh on him at all.
He'd been looked at plenty of ways in his life, sized up by nobles, enemies, and directors weighing what he was worth. He knew this particular kind of scrutiny as well—the cold, impersonal measure of flesh, blood, and potential—and he had never cared for it. He kept his face flat and let the old man work.
