Cadeyna watches him go, staring thoughfully at the wrinkly surface he left behind. No outline, no exit sign that she can see. The door-mouthes are disturbing enough, but how do people get around places they don't know...? There must be a lot of bruised noses is the best she can come up with.

           Maybe that's why they have rounded heads? She let's the thought warm her face, alone and in control for the first time since she awoke. No Max keeping her on schedule. No man painting expectations all over the place.

           She stands at the entrance to the shower, a queen surveying her newfound domain. Wishbone walls on the open half; the strange city beyond (She herself appears to be fairly high up, nestled in a skyscraper of her own apparently); the green of potted plants surrounding the circular sofa; in the center, the heating table below its hanging column. Hmmm.

           Small set-back, Max appears to have taken the pen. She'll have to ask for another. Then again, she didn't see him carry it off. Perhaps it tidied itself somewhere in one of the walls... or it could have melted into nothing at all. That's possible too.

           As for the other half of the apartment - the solid, bumpy half... well she's not quite as confortable with it as she'd like. The bed and its attendant branch are... acceptable, but the rest... the rest is far too alien for her liking. Walls should not curve like that and if they did, they should do it in a less... contorted way. Most of all though, solid walls should be /solid/. The way things open and close around here, there could be any number of mouthes concealed pretty much anywhere and she would never know it. The things evoke unsettling images, images of consumption, of gaping wounds, of organic functions...

           Which sort of brings her back to her shower, doesn't it? She'll have to face it eventually. The procedure sounds fairly straight forward but even so, the prospect of stepping into this odd assembly is daunting. What if she does something wrong? Worse, what if she can't get out?

           She's not too happy about the bee either... or the windows. She hasn't really had the opportunity to think about it before, but there are reasons why shower stalls are set in bathrooms.

           Frowning, Cadeyna looks into the shower, then back at the room, then into the shower again, her uncertainty plain to see... She shakes her head, unhappy, breathes in a deep, steadying breath and... slides across the threshold as fast as appearances permit.

           The wall doesn't grab her or make any move until she's well pass. It does seal behind her though, leaving her trapped in a tiny, tiny room. Fortunetly, it's a very well lighted tiny room or... she's not sure what she'd do. She can feel the excitment as it is. Where the light actually comes from is hard to tell though. She looks up, expecting to see fixtures set flush with the ceiling, perhaps fluorescent strips. In fact she sees only the odd sinewy curve but nothing else. There are no lights. The room seems to simply, how can she describe it...? be lit.

           She notices something else too. Something that makes her frown. In the previous chamber light flooded the room from the many windows and skylights. Her shadow slinked around behind the direction of the light as it should, obeying all the normal laws of physics as she knows them. A quick glance around this room reveals, quite disturbingly, that she has no shadow.

           No light source. No shadow.

           That sort of makes sense in an odd sort of way... Right now though, the light is the least of her concerns. "Open.... Open, I said!" Nothing. How... how did Max do it? He... ah. She steps forwards and the wall opens. Back and it closes. Proximity sensors of some sort. She smiles... then frowns as the perticulars of the case hit her.

           A door that opens when you get near is not a very practical thing to have in a tiny shower, now is it? Don't these people have any modesty? or do they only shower when nobody is around? She'll have to stay pressed against the far wall and... Oh, of course - there has to be a lock, hasn't there? She calls to the walls, "Help? How do I stop the door from opening?"

           A small voice responds, synthetic and similar to the voice she sometimes hears when Max says something untranslatable. "Please state 'door lock'. To unlock the door please state 'door unlock', thankyou."

           Makes sense. "And who are you, huh Help?" Even though she expected it, she's slightly perturbed to hear voices when moments from now she'll be naked as the day she was born... but there is no response.

           She blinks uncertainly then tries again. "Huh. Help, what are your specifications?" That sounds technical enough.

           Unfortunetly, the voice seems to think so too: "Cleansing cubicle version six thousand eight hundred and fifty four point two, based upon the Biotropolian blueprint version six thousand eight hundred and fifty four point one. Cleansing cubicle six thousand version two of the eighth increment constructed by bionacrotic factory nine three two, six four four zero eight two three six four one two eight eight two on sector sixteen of level minus three four eight, one two nine nine three. Purpose: cleansing of forms one through nine of the Tropolian species list including servitors one through nine but excluding inter-life marks one through sixteen thousand two hundred and nine. Cleansing cubicle version six thousand eight hundred and fifty four point two, based on the Biotropolian blueprint version six thousand eight hundred and fifty four point one complies with all twelve certification requirements of the social spectrographic directive signed and confirmed by Director H class Geremiah Briggs of the classified board of overseers on behalf of Director A class Great Founder Stephane Wakotami of the original board." The voice falls silent.

           "Oh." What did she want to know again?

           It's nothing important, probably. Only a computer voice, she convinces herself. It can't even hear her if she does say "help" beforehand, a nice little feature. So... on to that shower!

           She turns her eyes away from the walls and examines the tight fitting suit stretched over her lithe frame while in her head, half-distracted thoughts continue on their merry way, sniffing around for nuggets of possible interrest. "Hmmm. Help? What are the species on that list you mentioned? Could you list them for me?" she asks, keeping most of her attention elswhere.

           The blue green body suit is proving more difficult to remove then she'd have thought. For one there doesn't appear to be any zips or velcro or... anything! It's as if the garment assembled itself around her, a strange version of permanent cosmetics...

           "One through nine of the Tropolian species list," help responds in its characteristic indifferent tone, "one: Human, two: Primate, three: Parakeet, four: Hermian, five: Banyan, six: Shiruken, seven: Sleimephoid, eight: Plasket, nine: Servitor. One through nine Servitor model list: one: Humanoid, two: Winged, three: Simbot, four: Bioshell, five: Drone, six: Invertebrate Simbot, seven: Ectoskeletal Simbot, eight: Endomorphic Simbot, nine: Nacrobiotic Simbot. Warning, listing the excluded inter-life species one through sixteen thousand two hundred and nine will take approximately two hundred and seventy one minutes and sixty six seconds. Do you wish to proceed?"

           "Just the five most common, please." Maybe it's just a question of asking, like the door lock. "Clothes off?"

           No response. Well from the clothes, at least. "One: Tregaris, two: Sheffle, three: Reticulan, four: Galaxian, five: Lutherian."

           A smile springs to her lips, "Lutherian?" The good ministers are not going to be pleased. Now if she could just get her suit off... How about showing it what she wants, like the actual door-mouth? Cadeyna grips her collar and tries to pull it appart. There's no seam there, but the doors are the same way, aren't they?

           Contrarely to what she expects though, the collar doesn't split. Instead the garment gives way, easily stretching as wide as she cares to pull it. It's made of some strange Will E. Coyote material...

           You know you're far from home when taking off your clothes is an adventure!

           Taking off your clothes /alone/, she corrects herself. Company does tend to make the experience more... interresting.

           She pulls down and wriggles her torso free of the thing, looking more lithe and frail than she remembers. A consequence of her illness, no doubt... then, grabbing each sleeve in turn, she removes her arms. They slip free with surprising ease, as though the inside of the suit were greased and just waiting to be removed.

           She's naked underneath. No undergarments, even though she felt supported. Not that she's overly heavy in that part of her anatomy - perky would be more accurate - but still... Variable elastic resistance? The garment doesn't feel different in that section... Later, worry about it later.

           Finally she pulls the leggings down, noticing for the first time that the suit clads even her feet. The soles are padded, their underneath ribbed with gripping ridges that she barely feels at all under her feet. The suit is so feathery light, so uncumbersome and unnoticeable that she hadn't even thought to check what sort of shoes she wore, hadn't even felt clothed.

           The suit pops off her feet (ugly black toenails, she's displeased to note, just like her fingernails) and she drapes the whole affair casually over her arm, preparing to fold it neatly for after her shower. Before she can do this it seems to shrink, the fabric stiffening slightly in her fingers. Moments later she finds herself staring with some amazement at a suit that would make a wonderful coverall for a child's doll but which she will have absolutely no hope of ever wearing again. She recalls episodes of laundry making, smalls made even smaller by too hot boil washes, and in one horrifying moment realises she has made an equivalent blunder, shrinking the only item of clothing she owns. What will she do now?

           Clearly something has gone horribly wrong here. Max will return to find her stark naked and desperately trying to squeeze herself into something Barbie would happily wear to an all night shin-dig...

           But then it stretched once, didn't it? Surely it can stretch again? Maybe this is just the cleaning stage Max spoke off? "Huh... Help, my clothes have shrunk. They are going to expand again, aren't they?"

           The voice responds this time, "The question was not understood. Cross reference help with subject headings help=expansion of shower orifice help=showering in clothing. Please choose your subject heading and repeat the question. It may help to reword the question."

           Cadeyna sighs and looks back at the tiny suit. You'd think people able to make perfect translators would have better help systems... apparently not.

           She decides to leave it for later. Get undressed, shower and only then do you need to worry about fitting back into your clothes. Seems logical enough. The suit will surely expand to fit her again once its finished doing... whatever it's doing.

           Yes. Now all she has to do is toss the suit outside so it doesn't get wet. Opening the door and reaching to the hook is a bother (there is a hook, she hopes. She hasn't seen one, but surely...), but it's much better than getting undressed outside. You'd think... She's being silly again.

           There must be a mouth somewhere in those rooty protrusions, a waterproof compartment to store her clothes and other stuff. Of course. She really must start thinking before assuming the worst. "Help, I'd like to open a... locker. How do I do that?"

           No voice this time but the wall near a bulging portion of the room seems to ripple slightly and one of those gruesome mouths splits open. Inside Cadeyna sees several white plastic-looking shelves glowing with that same sourceless light.

           They look so very normal against all this strangeness. The Tree in its white room, shelves in their showery forest... Leitmotif. "Guess I'm not supposed to look at you too long either, hmmm?"

           More garments like the one she has in her hand are stacked and folded, various different colours she notes and various different styles too. It's a little dispointing. She had vaguely thought her suit could change color and (why not) form as well. After all, she does have ten little screens on her fingers...

           Some of the garments have short legs, others appear to be similar to the one she has but instead of leggings they end in a tight fitting mini-skirt. Fashionable, she supposes, but given the lack of underwear at hand not particularly practical. There are also suits with hood attachments that would fit tightly over the head leaving only the oval of the face visible.

           Other garments hang from chrome rails, these are normal size which is reassuring in a peculiar way. There'll be no need to go au naturel should her old suit prove difficult. She sees a body-warmer coat, bulging with padding and busy with various pockets. Behind this is a small green jacket. It has no lapel and no fasteners and the sleeves are ribbed in a strange way which makes them overly stiff and plastic to the touch, but its quite attractive.

           Next to this clothing compartment is some kind of utility storage compartment containing one of those silver pen objects, a pair of round lensed blue tinted sunglasses, something that looks curiously like a pair of headphones and a small green object which, quite horribly, resembles a human heart.

           This last causes her to take a tentative step away from the locker. Names like Geoffrey Dhalmer and Al Bundy swim through her head. Nasty names, though she's not sure where they come from. The feeling she gets suggests both belong to people you'd not like to meet on a dark night in a narrow alleyway. People who keep unspeakable things in their freezers. People with perverse interests in other people. People who might possibly have a human heart in their cupboard. People quite entirely unlike Max bar that last part.

           But she chides herself for being silly again. No human heart is green and this thing looks like its made from clay, not flesh and blood. She prods it cautiously and sighs with relief when it doesn't leap up and attack her, doesn't give in that fleshy way a human heart would. In fact, on closer inspection, its absolutely solid, hard as wood.

           Something buzzes in her ear and she spins, slightly startled. One of those curious fly things spirals past her face then flits down and alights on her shrunken garment. Another zips in from behind the central column and also lands on the suit, the two insects, tiny dots half the size of a pinhead each, move jerkily over the fabric like miniature flies treading over dung.

           "Bleagh!" The suit and attached flies go flying into the locker. "Close locker... and lock the door!" She hadn't even noticed it was open! Must have triggered it when she stepped back, but there had been none of the usual wind of a door opening... and of course the strange directionless light stayed exactly the same.

           Cleaning house flies, how utterly... the sick feeling in her stomach completes that thought better than words ever could.

           "Mirror, please!" She needs to steady herself, to ground all this strangeness into something more familiar...

           This time no voice... and no mirror. "What now? Oh God, what now?" Something moves behind her. A subtle, fluid motion! She whirls and jumps, a shriek on her lips, but find herself staring into the eyes of a small bronzed woman, tensed and apparently ready to pounce.

           Cadeyna barks laughter and only manages to swallow it with difficulty. The whole rear wall of the cubicle has become a mirror, her body and the ambiguously lit chamber reflected before her. The chamber suddenly seems larger - an optical illusion of course but comforting given the claustrophobic dimensions of the place... and she does need confort. The strangled giggling fit takes its time, but she does manage to calm it eventually.

           It leaves her feeling a lot calmer, like a young teen catching herself skipping like a little girl and feeling forced to put on a serious face to compensate. She gazes forcefully at her own face, eye fixed into eye. The face looking back is startlingly gaunt. Even her normally dark latin skin appears pale, as though sprinkled with a light dusting of grey foundation - though, she tries to convince herself, this may be due to the odd lighting.

           Her hair is a mess, lank and greasy; her eyebrows wildly untamed, like two messy caterpillars furrowing their fur above her eyes. An old latin curse, bushy eyebrows. She used to pluck them. Evidently her time in hospital (or rejoove as Max so insists on calling the place) has allowed them to flourish as daffodils in an untended meadow. Strange that her nails didn't grow as well. Maybe the sick blackness prevented them from growing?

           There are more worrying things. There on her forehead is a large pinkish circle. Max had exactly the same spot on his own forehead but what is it doing on hers? With tentative fingers she touches the slightly raised circle but it feels just like her own skin, warm, smooth and soft, though not as unnaturally soft as Max's head of course.

           Wondering at the purpose of this unwanted pinkish tattoo, she looks down on the rest of herself, twisting this way and that to get a better view. There aren't any more, are there? She's thinner than she should, of that she is sure. Her ribs are slightly visible and her tummy is flatter yet less toned than usual. Everything else looks okay, if you except the toenails... Actually, the inside of her mouth is a little worrying too. It's blueish, like she's been sucking a grape popsicle for too long. Her lips are pale too, tinged blue.

           "Hope I don't have a heart condition." There was this girl in secondary school. Maulene? She couldn't run, had to sit out phys-ed... Whatever happened to her - Cadeyna, not Maulene - it had taken a lot out of her. Strange that she didn't feel it more... but she didn't. Not exactly bouncing with exuberant pep... but not the Cadeyna in the mirror either. She looks half-dead.

           The healthy one looked at her gray self, dark eyes into dark eyes. Those seem alright, not overly bloodshot. Eyebrows can be plucked, hair washed and styled. She'll have to get back into shape, gain some color, but that's doable. She scrunches her eyes up, squinting at her own forehead. Even the pink circle of Maxism can be covered with a little concealer... if it's not a status symbol of some kind... or something to do with the translator.

           If only Help was a little more helpful, she would ask her about all this... Well, maybe it's worth a try. "Help, how do I get medical information about myself?" Maybe the thing can connect to brighter Helps and get her what she needs that way. No need to just stand there while she does it either. "Turn on the shower-" she's forgotten the code for medium heat! "Medium heat?"

           A fine spray, almost a mist, of deliciously warm water fills the room. She has no doubt the water comes from the holes in the ceiling but she doesn't actually see any water emerging as with a conventional shower. The water simply is. Like a cloud of vapour it soaks her, warms the room and drains into puddles around her feet then down the holes.

           "The question was not understood." is saying Help. "Please note that the cleansing cubicle cannot answer help queries that do not correspond to the cleansing cubicle. Please refer to your personal pad's help files for unrelated queries. Alternatively cross reference help with subject headings help=medicated soaps and health elixirs help=information about cleansing cubicle general help file. Please choose your subject heading and repeat the question. It may help to reword the question."

           "Thank you, Help." smiles Cadeyna, not the least bit sincere. She twirls under the water. "Notes for the day, entry the first: get a personal pad!" She pauses, then adds two mental underline for added emphasis.

           Curiously the mirror remains unfogged, though it runs with water like everything else. A foam of scentless soap lathers on her body as she runs her hands over her skin. It runnels to the floor where it gathers in great mountainous heaps of white fluff.

           The water doesn't seem to get in the way of breathing either, though it probably should... Shouldn't it? Much like the light, water simply... is. Which reminds her. Cadeyna playfully puts one hand over the other, trying different angles but utterly failing to get any shadow. Finaly she cups her palms together and presses her eye to the open side.

           The inside of her hands is lit, as though an invisible bulb were lurking between them! It's an odd effect, quite disconcerting. Lighted air, she's breathing lighted air! Her lungs must be lit up like a city at night! Not that she appears to be glowing or anything...

           Well good. Why not lighted air? She has no difficulty breathing, so something or someone has accounted for all this. Her lungs remain undrenched while the rest of her drools the warm omnipresent spray. Same with the light, she'd bet.

           Cadeyna nods to herself in a reassuring way and sends the thought into the 'it must be alright' file next to the underlined 'Notes for the day'. It's getting crouded already, that file, what with Max's head, the bees, the mouthes, the water, the light... but of more import is the hair question: Is there a separate shampoo? She can't remember.

           Max didn't mention one, she's pretty sure... but then he didn't mention a lot of things. "Help, is there... No, don't answer that." It's not like her hair can get worse. She rubs and she smoothes, behind the ear, between her toes, all the usual suspects... and the hair, of course. She gives it a good lathering.

           "Wonder if they have water quotas?" Wouldn't do to overindulge. Summers have been drier than usual these last few years and - but what is she thinking? She's certainly not in Brasil anymore, the city outside certainly doesn't look like Belo Horizonte, and is it even summer?

           "Shower off." she orders distractedly. "Dry cyc-" Wait, her hair is going to dry too! "Help, where can I find a brush?" A suddenly worried look to where the closet-mouth opens prompts her to quickly add, "Just tell me! Don't open anything unless I tell you to."

           The voice says, "Please wait. Recalibrating translation."

           Cadeyna frowns, looking up and around.

           "Brush: please specify from the following options. A) Brushwood, thicket, underwood. Small trees and shrubs growing. B) Implement of bristles, hair, wire, etc. set in wood or similar material for scrubbing or sweeping (non-contemporary) bunches of hairs (non-contemporary) in straight handle, quill etc. for painting. C) Tail, esp. of extinct Earth species fox, tuft. D) discharge of sparks, piece of carbon or strips securing metallic connection, also moveable strip of conductable material for making and breaking connection. E) Brush-clam Inter-species five thousand eight hundred and fifty one, jelly worm found in gaseous supergiant Gitaza Five. F) Brush, as in brushen, language of Europian hive colonists (non-contemporary) G) Brush, extrepedential annihilation of quantum seeds in the formation of fissionable ALW. Please note I have twelve million six thousand two hundred and eleven additional matches to brush, B R U S H. To list further choices specify matches per listing and decimal location of next bookmark. To select one of the prespecified choices please state the corresponding letter."

           The young woman blows water from her lips, the rest of her just as soaked. Why would she want a small shrubbery at the end of her shower? "A brush. Something with bristles to brush hair into something decent-looking. Human hair, not banyan or parakeet or gold fish hair, /human/ hair!" Help can't be this dense, she's doing this to her on purpose!

           Help responds, "Please wait." A slight hum follows then yet another mouth peels open, this one from the surface of the mirror wall. Cadeyna's flinching reflection distorts around the wrinkled lips of the aperture like a disfigured amusement in a carnival hall of mirrors. Why did it have to come out of there!

           A branch-like object slides out, too like an extended tentacle for Cadeyna's liking, and something that may or may not be a hairbrush fizzles into existence at its tip, then the whole assembly hovers in mid-air, expectant.

           Suspiscious inspection reveals that the brush has bristles, which is a plus, but the handle is gnarled like an old tree-root... which could be aesteticaly pleasing if it wasn't the most awful shade of muddy green as well.

           Well better that than nothing and she's starting to cool down. The brush is plucked from the air and the branch retracts, the mouth closing with a revolting 'schlick' sound. The brush is solid in her hand, despite being made from nothing at all. She'd half expected it not to be. Brushes from nothing, glasses to nothing... this is not doing anything good for her sense of reality. She swallows, wet and unhappy.

           "Dry cycle, please."

           Warm air blasts from the walls surrounding her, lifting her hair which billows disobediently around her head while she desperately tries to manage it with the brush. The drying cycle lasts only a few minutes after which she finds herself dry from head to toe... though her hair is understandably still wet. Wet enough to style she notes. She won't have to spend the rest of her days (however long that is) walking around with a do Marylin Manson would be proud of.

           Max did say something about this, she belatedly recalls. He told her and she forgot. "Why can't I do anything right?" Long strokes, from top to bottom. Long strokes that get shorter and quicker and then shorter still until she stops entirely, hugs herself and let's the tears flow.

Snf. "ahh, snf, well that was... was very constructive, Gianina." She... she's not too mad with herself though. Her hands tremble a bit when she sets them to smoothing away the remaining waterworks, her sniffling now more fond remembering than anything else, but she gets back to her brushing, not trying to think of anything in perticular. Smooth strokes, nothing but smoothe strokes... Eventually, even the sniffling is gone.

           "Help, hold this for me will you?" She leaves the brush in the capable grip of a tentacle-root and turns to where the closet once bared its shelves. Hmmm.

           Cadeyna squeezes herself by the side of the closet, trying to avoid touching the wall. "Open door. Huh, unlock door, then open door." Nobody in sight and that's a good thing. She should really have thought it through first, but... oh well. "Open the closet." If the little bees don't fly out by themselves, she's going to have to toss them out on their inexistant little ears! ...and wouldn't you know it, no bees show themselves. If she was a sailor she'd be swearing.

           "Straight path to freedom, little bees. Come on now. Come on..." She makes shooing gestures... The bees are hiding. Probably waiting for her to reach in a hand then they'll buzz out at her in a flurry, the little pests! Bad enough she has to put her hand in there in the first place... No help for it.

           Quick, darting gestures. That should do the trick.

           First the pen, then an outfit (she ends up with a short-sleeved number. Long pants though). After some hesitation she also makes a grab for the green heart. Only thing that looks vaguely pad-like in the lot. She can just about /feel/ where the mouth would close on her arm if it decided to prove difficult. Good locker door, obedient locker door... "Close locker! Close and lock door."

           She settles on the floor with a sigh of relief, her treasure spread out around her. "Help, could I get a stool? S T O O L, a raised something to sit on... about yay high and preferably in front of the mirror?"

           The branch thing emerges again, this time from a different place in the mirror. Cadeyna watches with a grimace as her own forehead appears to split open, the branch squirming free from the recesses of her skull.

           Yes, Help is definitely doing it to her on purpose! Probably resents having to work on a bank holiday or something.

           Again comes the fizzle, tiny flecks of light and dust merging on the point of the tentacle. A tripod seat builds itself from thin air and from the bottom up, solidity forming behind the crest of a rapidly moving neon wave. Like the hairbrush the stool is formed from that odd and unbecoming green stuff, badly proportioned, legs twisted and knobbly.

           It comes to her that this is probably a statement of style, something made to fit with the rest of the room... not the best choice as far as she's concerned. "Help, could you make it huh... white with straight legs?"

           "Unable to comply," Help responds in a most unhelpful way. "This booth is subject to energy constrictions imposed by Tropolian guidelines. All temporary manifestations with a density ratio of three hundred thousand cubits or larger must be manufactured using Base Gel only. If you would prefer a permanent representation of your request please contact Tropolis using your personal pad. Please ensure you have all data necessary and valid reasons for the permanent placement of the requested manifestation."

           Typical. She grabs away the stool and places it on the floor, glad to see that at least the badly designed legs don't make for a wobbly seat.

           She sits... only to get up again. She wouldn't usually get dressed at this point, but the lack of towels is- oh, right. "Help, I'd like a white, fluffy towel, large enough to wrap around myself... one and a half times. And do make that branch thing come out from somewhere else than the mirror, would you?" She'll be taking no more guff from Help.

           This time the branch emerges from the wall next to the mirror. A buzz accompanies the firework display of dancing glitter and a white fluffy towel forms from the bottom up. She plucks it from the air, getting used to this ceremony now. The branch retreats into its fleshy cavern while she wraps the towel around herself... twice exactly she notes with a wry smile. Help is still being Help.