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It was an item of quality, older than the name Mond by generations, several and likely to far outlive it. It sat in his palm comfortably, the well glossed, black plastic catching the light in the body's ridges. Mustafa flipped the dial on the side and the machine buzzed to life. It was a Braun, SM 5 'Commander', with a chrome head and wireless internal battery, though since its design and manufacture in nineteen hundred and sixty-three CE, the old zinc battery was replaced. First with lithium, then a bio-polymer battery, and finally with a radioisotopic isotopic battery. To ensure clean, and reliable function for the rest of time. He pressed the foil razor to the side of his face and tilted his head towards the mirror, giving himself a sidelong glance. He wanted to be presentable, as always, effortlessly straightening the edges of his beard, the razor glossing over his acne scars. 

[i]Actors need characteristic faces![/i]

An old instructor once told him, which was how broadcast got its first pockmarked face in living history. He was popular, off the bat of his graduation from his school, the propagandists went wild, using him to portray old villains, representing prudish underconsumption. And party forbid, communists. But within a few decades, he grew tired of it, as a creative, he had access to books no longer being published or publically listed, and he grew to realize that he wasn't portraying villains. But the protagonists. He could do nothing about it of course, but the knowledge was its own revolution, and he fancied himself as a bit of a Helmholtz Watson.

Using a comb, he sculpted his beard, running the Commander over its tines and trimming down any unruly hairs.  

It was a day he counted down to with no sense of joy or dread, he wasn't here on his own accord, and at the same time, he was here by his own making. There was no reason to be upset or elated. Everything he brought with him fit in one medium suitcase, it was what the party had allowed him when they repossessed everything they owned. Repossessed, they called it, 'as if it was their's to begin with.' The faux leather matched him in some way, a man out of time, and so did it's simple cargo. The few pieces of electronics he had were antiquated, but they suited his needs, he never liked to throw away what still worked, or that could be fixed. Which made him the most undesirable. 

And just like any other old man, going somewhere, he rose early, well before the artificial sunlight came on. The halls were still bumbling with people, enjoying the last night on that slave boat, scrawling on the walls that they were there, as if the walls wouldn't be painted over. Puking on the carpets as if they wouldn't be pulled up and replaced when the ship came to its berth. He dodged them, shuffling and shimmying the drunk masses, enjoying the last of their freedom, all the while managing to keep their mess off his tan suit. What he wore when he first boarded. 

There were a thousand canteens on the ship, equally dispersed through-out the lodgings, yet he avoided the closer ones, his unit was filled with a particularly distasteful rabble. And it didn't take much more than a silver tongue to let security to allow him access to a more distant one, as a "supply saving measure". 

The floor of the canteen was chequered linoleum, and everything was plastered with a fake wooden veneer, lit with amber lights from a low ceiling. There were a counter and booths, a scanner to ensure everyone came in for their allotted meal times. Which Mond stepped around, with no interest in being told harmlessly to step await his scheduled time. 

"[color=maroon]Coffee, White, Jam Biscuit.[/color]" He said up to the ceiling, before taking a seat in one of the slippy vinyl seats. Putting both hands in his laps, Mustafa waited patiently, as machinery above his headed responded to his request. 
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