over to me as the drawer of that opens, and I fish out a cobalt blue... 'boxer panties'? 

I slip our unforunately oddly proportioned legs around it and enjoy the mild awkwardness of the tuck-in and the firm 'hug' of the fit. 

Suit-pants in the same style, presumably? 

I nod, and throw on the slick black affair - though they cut off about half-way between the knee and foot for air circulation. 

I slip my hands into the pockets, noticing the silver-grey flourish in the weave, and tap my thighs. 

This feels a bit incomplete. 

I tug on another drawer on instinct probably mostly pinged by the temporal systems, and look at the dazzling array of jewelry provided. 

- Something simpler. 

My eyes trace down to a smaller section - smooth rounded boxes that I quickly pop open with rings set in the display cushions, with the usual variety of scope and size. There could probably be a two pound diamond on a necklace, if I looked for such a thing but... 

A signet ring with a pure shining sapphire, cut finely like... 

- the computer calls it a porteguese rose. 

It's firm and heavy, but relatively compact, and it makes the touches feel... more deliberate? 

I rest my hand up against our cheek, feeling the fool metal brush against the sensitive skin, and smile warmly. 

That seems right, for this. 

I tug at the shoulders of the suit - not that it's uncomfortable or wrong, but simply because it feels more... central, to have that action done, and take a stroll over to the bathroom, ignoring the opulence for a moment to settle into the new set of my shoulders and self.

- I presume there's a decent way to 'shave' here? 

There is! 

Classical blades, lasers and creams enchanted for faultlessness are all available in the ensuite! 

I breathe out. 

Alright. 

Might as well shave with a blade, then? 

I take the blade from beside the sink thoughtlessly, rinsing it with water smoothly before running it along my cheek. 

I'm fuzzy, still - though that passes with each stroke, each feather-light strand slipping out of my skin with each stroke, leaving it matted with thick black hair for a moment before it washes away into nothing as I wash it all away. 

It's... soothing, even if not for the rest of us, I expect. 

I rub my face, and it's clean and raw, but not sore, it seems. 

I sink my head down to the sink, splashing cool water along my face and saping up to feel it adding up to something that's all right...~

So... 

Suppose we could do like, a tour? 

Honestly though, it'd be nice to learn a bit more about the trip schedule, or do the fashion consultation or figure out some hobby thing to do or something. 

...I breathe out. 

Is this actually going to happen now? 

I rub my eyes and walk back over to the bed, plopping into the shell of shadow to think properly. 

...I move my tongue around my mouth hesistantly, feeling out the contours of the thing that feels so stuck in my throat, the way that it sort of transubstantiates to a blockage in my mouth. I can almost taste it now, the styrofoam and coarse cheap plastic of the thing, the little chokes and retreats that my throat likes taking that emphasize my stupid fucking adam's apple, the little anticipatory sting down the inside of my neck as I dry up, as the air itself starts feeling rough and hard and...

there's probably an internal transport system right so. 

I pant a little, and swallow down my saliva.

okay.

I roll over, rubbing my slightly teary face up against the pillows, and reach out for the glass console thing and try as hard as I can not to think about how it's writing something to type in a rquest for some fucking tissues and bloody water. 

A silky hankerchief and a tall glass of water appears on the floor aside the bed. 

I try not to gulp, and sink into the sheets, pulling up the hankerchief to wipe my eyes as the tears start falling. 

I hug myself tight and yes down the fucking water like a good girl and-d-d-d-...

okay okay okay. 

I... guess i'm not doing that then? 

I curl up tighter and cry some more.

I... suppose I've always hated the process of going through this, the screeching halts and sudden attacks of this sort of just raw discomfort. 

It's not even particularily particularized, when I take the time to dissociate a touch and take a moment to note the general malaise flooding trhough me. 

I breathe deeply and swig down more of the water.

I just... 

No. 

i'msorryican't.

Yeah. 

I know. Water sinks down my thorat as I sgh, leaning back and letting our hair spill out agains the pillow, sinking back into the comfortably squishy expanse of matress and pillow. 

The memory of the sound of waves lapping is easy enough to conjure, and humming half-tunlessly is easy enough and clear the feeling, just a little. 

I rub the cloth beneath my eyes, trying to take away the little bits of caked-on-sweat that have sprung up in this painful moment.

...I shake my head. 

Calling it something coasrser won't make itfeel any less nice, and I'm not in a rush. 

I'm just... here.