Of most interest to McAllister were the tightly-stoppered glass carboys on the floor, and the tub of water. Glancing inside, he saw what he expected, small, round pellets of dark material soaking in the watery contents.Much materiel and unidentifiable constructs were on the other flat surfaces in the room, and at the far end stood a desk, with a form on the bench before it, sleeping with its head on the desk."It's a woman," McAllister commented. Before him, the woman stirred uneasily, and made a small, querulous sound."She sleeps fitfully," Sable replied silently. "Should we wake her?"The rudely-carved stick in McAllister's pocket twitched just then. Showing Sable what he was doing, McAllister wordlessly fished it out, so the crude face on it could observe.Sable said nothing, but radiated a slight amusement.A definite sense of exasperation came from the stick McAllister held in his hand. A tiny blue bolt sizzled from the upper end of the thing and hit the sleeping woman square on the. Usually it's a just a comment, or blocking your path and making you shuffle around them, eyes down, knowing not to look, not to engage. The comments are always the worst part, for some reason - they always know how to pick away at what makes you most self-conscious... and your body gives them a lot to choose from.When you were a teen, you never seemed to "man up" like the other boys did, and your face was more noticeable for your fuller lips, softly fluted nose, and thick eyelashes than a strong jaw. Your shoulders stayed narrow and your hips, well, they didn't. It seemed like everything you ate went straight to your ass, and though you tried dieting, it didn't do enough - the wiggle stayed in your walk, and the men by the door sure noticed. As always, they'd laugh at you, but you'd move on - it's fine.You know you should stop them, stand up for yourself, but they're all a head taller than you and much more build. You're not a toothpick by any stretch, but, well, you've always been.
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