She sleeps dreamlessly, if starting through 6-inches of solid plexisteel, crystalline eyes unblinking for three hours, can be called sleep.<br/><br/>Feathery lashes blink once as her life-synthesis initializes, and her smooth-skinned breasts rise and fall in one slow, steady breath under the silk kimono she wears.  It's 3:42 on a Friday morning/Thursday evening, and Liz turns back to the bare-floored, bare-walled bedroom she calls home.  The floor is exquisite, honey-black teak... it must be antique, otherwise it'd have cost as much to get wholesale as its weight in platinum.  No footprints or dust mar its surface... even as her soft feet pad over it on her way to the mirror-wall of closet, they don't leave the faint residue of oil or dead skin-- not even the microscopic trace of her passing... the room is practically sterile, a fancy, minimalist storage closet for a pretty doll or expensive machine.   Or both.<br/><br/>She opens the silvery mirrored door mid-room, and a dressing table, lamp, and desk scroll prettily out like the unfolding of beetle's wings and legs, compounded flexing of arm after arm of high-density plastic opening for her.<br/><br/>The desk’s contents are simple by comparison to most women’s dressing supplies; portable music docking station… earring tree from the late 19th century, sterling silver and shaped like an angel’s wings… airbrush kit with acrylic-composite powders and dyes… three-drawer plastic organizer for body jewelry.  A vanity in every sense.<br/><br/>She presses the [> button and an electric guitar strums out an old, old song, a scratchy, famous razor-blade voice from the 1990s sings out with the beauty of joyful anger and youth, and she remains fixed for a moment letting its perfectly crystalized mortality resonate through her envious processes… “One baby to another said ‘I’m lucky to’ve met you…’”<br/><br/>The music reverberates through her room as she flips buttons and turned the dial on her D-MAO, the equalizer staying illuminated in pretty shades of gold and green as she reviews the itenerary, incoming messages, and plans for the day.<br/><br/>Training at 5:02.  Breakfast with the crew at 07:02.  Meeting during breakfast.  Itinerary clear from 8:02 on… expect this time to be briefing and planning.  If possible, 9:02, study session with willing partners.  (She’s learned that humans are usually not prompt, so she has adjusted her clock by two minutes.  It doesn’t seem to help.  She corrects for it without meaning to).<br/><br/>9:02 study session.  Yummy.  She can’t hide the faint smile.  She wondered who she’d have as a study partner or subject.  A little giggle, a physical reactions.  She knows they’re ghosts, but can’t determine the origin of these impulses... her designer, the freakish genius and demented mad fuck… is the only one, so far, who can answer that.  And he’s not talking.<br/><br/>She keeps the kimono tied and stands.  She primps her hair, she doesn’t need to.  She slips on sandals and heads for the bedroom door.<br/>