Heading sunward, Hoshi felt the need to escape from reality. She climbed up the ladder leading to the requiescence tank’s opening. The tank’s liquid contents were the blue that comes from shallow ocean waters: a deep blue with hints of green. The standard-g thrust kept the contents from floating out of the requiescence tank. The tank’s service protocols injected her with a muscle relaxant and another batch of metachines, in order to help repair and replenish those colonies found in her body. She fitted her head with an underwater oxygen helmet. The epoxy sealed the helmet around her neck, creating an airtight seal that would keep her from drowning or leaking oxygen into the requiescence tank.

“Sweet dreams, Hoshi,” the tank’s servicing protocols repeated to her for the second time. “Remember that the requiescence tank may be evacuated if you are in any danger.”

“Fuck off,” she mumbled to herself.

“What was that, Hoshi? Cannot register your speech. Are you having trouble with your microphone?”

“Nope,” Hoshi answered and flashed a smile to the camera attached to the servicing protocol’s computer.

“Enjoy your stay,” the servicing protocol said.

Hoshi jumped down the tank’s gullet, feeling herself slip into the water below. She swam the waters, and, before long, she felt the tug of sleep, real sleep. The kind of sleep she craved; the kind of sleep that brought her back to the Wasteland proper.

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