#th:dyon

Mangoes. Why? If anything, waking up to a vicious hankering for sap-fleshed fruit beat the usual nail-gullied arms and phlegm-soaked throat, but in no world did this array of floor tiles resemble a bed. Three translucent walls, two metallic rows of numbered buttons— a training center elevator — cool. This could be worked with. But to where exactly was it whizzing downward? An acrid smell pinpricked the air, rocketing the scent of stale booze and spinach up from a pile of...chunky stuff. Globules of stench clung to limp hair, strands thick with alcohol-drenched lamb and quiche residue. Alright. Cool. Well, at least it was still better than a few looks over the morphling years. Max removed her jacket — better to wipe up the mess than force some poor Avox into added labor — but as the grey doors dinged open, her movements were forced to a halt. “Dyon. Hey,” she greeted, managing to pull herself upward, a lump of last night’s sticky, inverted meal falling to the floor. “How’s your life going? Do you, uh...do you come here often?"