Daji brings me towels and a tray of drinks. She’s gone out of her way to put on a Vimana uniform, though her version is a little less modest—the neckline plunges deeper, the hemline floats shorter. Maroon stockings, burnished with hints of copper, sheathe her legs. “You’re such a vision,” she murmurs as she wipes me down, lingering on the dark seams where flesh blends into musculoskeletal couplings. “Do you suppose I could clean up all this salt with my tongue? It seems wasted on towels.”
