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You're certainly on the more elegantly-shaped side. You never quite managed to get your parents to confess how much of this was deliberate choice and how much they left up to the wiles of the process, but either way you're seldom unhappy with the results.
Sure, a more impressive frame might engender more respect but you do quite like what you have all the same.
You get dressed in the uniform customary for all departees, snatch your rather old-fashioned phone from its charging stand and seal the room behind you.
Your interface bracelet vibrates, confirming that the space behind you is now undergoing full lockdown procedures with the air being replaced by first hard vacuum, then ethylene gas and finally argon, to ensure that no matter how long you stay away it'll be as be as pristine as the day you left it.
Your heart flutters and you revel in the feeling. Sadness is such a gift and you let yourself cry as you make your way down the spire, others seeing your uniform and giving you understanding nods. By the blood, you're not the only one.
Relieved and hopeful you arrive at the central plaza assigned for take-off, your parents BEAMING with pride as they embrace you, similar scenes playing out all around you.
Mother's floor-length dress is a scintillating crimson that slowly shifts between different hues, father wearing a purple toga and True Leather boots. He was always so proud of those boots, despite some calling the act of hunting with your bare hands rather barbaric for this age.
It's odd how you notice and recall these details so clearly now.
>Tell them you'll miss them
>Tell them you'll make them proud
>Tell them you'll come back soon
