Carvings adorn the showerheads. They are figurines of people—they are modeled after stewards. None are known by name. Their wrists and ankles are bound; their bindings are metal, carved in place since their casting.

Some are fastened, mid-dance, with legs spreading in all a Human's starkness, bareness, and nakedness. Their hands melt into their stomachs and nethers. Others are abstractions; the skins of their faces twist as if howling—hands pulled at them while fresh and hot from the forge. They caress their sculpted bodies—sculpted in all the range from bone to fatness.

Beneath one carving of notable musculature, stands a stowaway of notable musculature. Suds sit and slide down the hills of his back, and those hills will one day, with effort, become mountains. Roman parts his lips in the shape of a circle and blows a bubble. The bubble rises through the steam until popping on the ceiling, leaving the imprint of water and iridescence.

More fly from him. More soap flows, sloughing from his neck to his groin, joining the empurpling foam at his thighs and calves until his leg lifts and the substance washes away.

The scent of vanilla lingers on his slickened skin, as are tinges of discoloration where the soap had sat beyond a few minutes.

He moves his foot, pivoting to the left. The footprint remains.

"Do you see your brother and sister as fools, Oren?" Roman asks.

A sign sits, bolted to the wall in front of him. Hella read the words to him several times. He does not recall them, and though his eyes skip over the words, they stick to the pictures: the little cartoons of people dying after drinking the water from the showers. She told him not to drink the water, and he doesn't.

Her muffled voice sounds quiet behind the door. She may not return. She will not return if they know her to be a stowaway, and if they know her to be a stowaway, he will trail behind—voluntarily.

"Do you take us for fools?" Roman asks again.

Oren doesn't answer for a time. The bastard stands, letting the shower baptize him, covering his lowers like the fattened figures attached to the showerhead. Then, he laughs to himself.

"What does your question mean, Roman?"

Roman looks the weasel's way. "When Hella walked through the door, did you know the chief stood behind?"

"Can I see through walls?"

Roman splashes a puddle with his foot. "Did you set up our sister?"

Stolen novel; please report.

Oren scoffs and tells him no.

"I don't believe you."

"And does that make you bright?"

"That makes you amongst the stars, having lost half your allies."

The silhouette on the door depicts three figures, meshing into one form. From the form, a hand raises. The shouting of the chief seeps beneath the door frame. Then, silence.

"Congratulations," Oren says. "The stars blessed you with your own brain. Learn to work the left side before we dock.."

"On second thought—"

"And congratulations on your second thought," Oren says.

"On second thought," Roman continues, "Where's the division between us and you coming from? Tell me what we've done?"

"There is no split between us," Oren says. "But, there is a peace I earned by virtue and a peace you earned by skullduggery. There is a split between our peace and their foundation, and they are as incompatible as oil and water."

A silence drifts between the pair.

"You will get me killed," Oren finishes. "Or worse, as Hella explained."

"I see."

The rolling fog makes a barrier between them, or like a mirror. Roman takes a breath.

"I see your issue," the stowaway says. "Let me be the first to apologize."

"There is no point—"

"Because you did earn your peace the right way," he continues. "We were all hooked up to those monitors, and we all took those tests in front of everyone—we all saw; subservice is true 'nough to you, brother, no doubt. What you did wasn't a performance. Were I one of the priests, I believe I couldn't detect a lie in your spirit. You belong here."

"But—"

"But," he continues, "I can't explain how we shared a womb. I have no clue how we share blood. How you came to be something sniveling, snitching, and betraying."

"I didn't—"

"Hear me please, Oren," Roman says. "I am no fool. I am upset at your lack of enthusiasm. I follow no fool, and who I follow has kept her coolness. She stands by you still, so I stand by you. That was my second thought. Watch yourself."

Before Oren can respond to the tirade, the door cracks—then slams against the tiles. The chief stomps and wades through the steam. The vapor clings to her, and she pulls Hella and the giantess in tow, as if by some unseen line. She stops, and waves them away with a grimace.

"As I said, Oren," Roman says, "you belong here, but Hella and I belong off Earth, amongst the stars."

Hella arrives and stands between the two, looking back and forth.

"How'd it go?" Oren asks.

Hella wipes a streak of grime from her cheek, then his. "We're fucked."