"Through there," said Machia thoughtlessly. Her attention was elsewhere.

 Her wardrobe was just a chest of drawers, sorted into the following categories:
- Socks: Uniform cheap, brown and interchangeable, except for a set of expensive high-tech running thigh-highs that have sunk to the bottom through disuse.
- Underwear: From a vending machine.
- Tops (light): A completely random collection of old battered t-shirts, expensive mens button-up shirts in a variety of fashionable colours, crumpled up into unironed balls, and a couple of those extremely nice high-quality interview shirts the media team gives Aristeia! competitors for interviews.
- Tops (heavy): Enough black turtlenecks to supply silicon valley in the post-Steve Jobs years, mixed with with handknitted sweaters and vests.
- Jackets: Purchased from a hiking store, high quality and durable and worn to bits.
- Pants: Black

When you returned, Machia was crouched down, deep in communion with Blanche. She was studying it as intensely as she studied anything; her ear turned to face you as you entered, but her eyes remained locked.

"How does one go about creating a totem like this?" she asked. She was too dumb and intense to be joking.