A gag is visible as well, the white material covering the space from nose to chin like a panel. Your hair is long and blonde, well-kept but disheveled, falling across your shoulders and down your back. In its silvered visage you see yourself, a woman bound lewdly upon the bed. It's the mirror visible across from the foot of the bed that truly gives perspective. Several other items rest there but they're above your head, only vaguely visible. An endtable beside the bed features a projected clock against the wall, reading ''GOOD MORNING''. Looking around, the rest of the room shows a similar decor- clean lines, smooth surfaces, a strictly modern aesthetic. And you're bound at wrist and ankle by simple cuffs. They're white, same as the ceiling above. You're on a bed with peculiar, slick sheets. First things first: you //really// give your situation proper examination. ] Instead of further physical efforts, your rational mind asserts itself. And you're bound, arms and legs spread by the chains linking each to the corner posts of the bed. From your toes to the flare of your waist, up past a pert chest. You're laying on a bed, the sheets smooth and glossy, nothing like the silk and satins you're more familiar with. Through the lingering fog of your mind you look down, and the situation becomes clearer. Only to fail, muscles suddenly straining. The headache persists but your body doesn't register the same problems, and tries to rise. You're staring at a pristine white ceiling, the inner portion recessed, swirling etchings defining the boundary. The world is bleary but the data comes in, sharpening with every passing second. Your eyes open, as your mind grapples with a question so fundamental. Men defied the Gods of the this world once, but do so again at their own peril. Far less convenient than landing directly, but you know that isn't possible. You're seated upon a plush bench seat, hand pressed to the glass of the capsule roaring downward towards a planet that stretches beyond the horizon. ] The memory is cloaked in a web of blackened synapses, lying at the very edge of the abyss that you recognize as your short term memory, but fragments do come through. (Set: $debt to 0) (Set: $Wardrobe to false)(set: $Slave to false)(set: $Blue to false)(set: $Smoke to false)(set: $Sec to false)(set: $Brand to false)(set: $IsSlave to false)(set: $Nun to false)(set: $showcredits to false)(set: $showgear to false)(set: $showstatus to false)(set: $LevelFix to false)(set: $DaemonEnd to false)(set: $PrisonerEnd to false)(set: $Servant to false)(set: $Status to 0)(set: $Ending to 0)(set: $debtShower to false)(set: $SaveName to "None")(set: $GoldCheat to false)(set: $Inv to (a:))(set: $Gear to 0) Most readily? ''Pain.'' A headache that could snap the ferrotitanium guide line of the Way Up. Craving for understanding is natural, but other symptoms tag along. Each revolution of the mind brings just a //bit// more to your senses. Reality bends to your will: ] Consciousness comes slowly, an interstellar drag engine spooling up after far too long unfired. Torei, consumed by pleasure and its attendant dangers, does indeed await. *Time drifts by with each passing stack cloud.
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