Memory Emporium; at the counter
The material, something close to (but not quite) leather, clung to her body in a way that nothing ever did. There was no space between skin and suit for anything more than a light sheen of sweat and a zipper whose teeth trailed down low. Too low. And while it was so foreign to have something pressed that close to her skin, maybe she would have been able to bear it. If it had been her own body. One that she had only ever seen in the mirror and from her viewpoint looking down. Not from a point outside of that body. She knew her face, when she saw it, and knew that it was not her. Knew it was trouble, the worst kind, to see this face in a reflection. So even as the body slunk between the unresponsive people in the mall, her mind devoted a corner of itself to panic. A certain, small corner, while the rest of it marveled at how different this body felt than her own. Curved and strong and feminine in a way that was so foreign. Seductively foreign.
How could someone feel this way? How could a body feel like this?
Sharp heels hit the floor as she walked through the building, past the Tea House (tempting, but no), The Drive (definitely not (at least not yet)), until she stopped in front of the Memory Emporium. Yes. Forgetfulness. New memories to slot in where she didn't want old ones to be.
Start From Scratch.
Could she? Did she dare? In this body, did she dare lose the past that kept her grounded in her own mind? Or did she take a chance since she already knew that the repercussions were going to come either way?
She pushed her way inside with the body that wasn't hers, past customers that barely paid her any mind, and approached the counter.