It had taken her a bit to shed everything off her small form, and longer still to figure out how to make the blasted shower work, but she was finally finally standing under a stream as hot as she could stand. It didn't matter that the water smelled... metallic, or that the pipes were shaking in their casting. It was blessed relief. Coughing as the steam tickled her throat, she looked longingly at the breathing compressor she'd left across the floor, not wanting to carry it under such a torrent.

Her mask she wore for showering was obviously not here, though, and she desperately needed to feel clean. To wash away a week of relieving herself in the corner like some animal, of hunting for scraps of food that turned her stomach inside out, and barely sleeping. Because you never knew when the next thing would be pushing itself into her holding zone, or hell even swinging their gun around wildly and hoping to get lucky. She'd been incredibly blessed to not be injured, but it had been a near thing several times, and her body was exhausted. And the... people, she supposed they were, that had tried to kill her. What where they? Where the hell was she?

She leaned her forehead against the cool wall; quite the stark contrast from the steam and hot water, and tried to piece everything out.

But then the water had suddenly turned to ice.

Wheezing sharply, she skittered away from the stream, her throat aching from the silent shriek. She hadn't been taking that long... had she? No, at least she didn't think so. Trudging around dejectedly, she paced and waited, checking the stream every few moments to see if the temperature had improved. Nope. Still wheezing, she continued her impatient dance, the bathroom kind of reminding her of a military's locker room. The shower head was just there. On the wall. No curtain, no wall, nothing dividing it from the rest of the bathroom. No need to, really.

Water was still cold. Damn. She turned off the faucet and stood in the room, dripping and shivering. She could lather up at least without suffering the frigid downpour. If she could find the soap, anyway. She'd already tried the dispenser looking thing on the wall, but all the buttons released nothing, so it was either empty or just didn't like her. And who knew with these fancy doors that seemed to be keyed to people by - Oh! Ohohoh! She got it now! The glove! He had waved it in front of doors! It locked and unlocked!

She went back to her pile of discarded things and pulled out the elastic sleeve, but thought better of it after a moment. She was still wet and in the process of a shower, sort of, and had no idea how well the thing would hold up to water. Sighing with a rush of air, then promptly coughing for her efforts, Tayce abandoned the thing and her revelation about it in favor of continuing to hunt out soap.

The cabinet she moved had a plethora of stuff but hell if she knew what was what. Giving up, she settled for the liquid stuff that sat on the sink. It smelled like something you'd find in a hospital to scrub off about three layers of skin and at least half your dignity, but any port in a storm, right? And this was a hygiene emergency. Her hair could be fixed later and skin would grow back.

A half hour later and she was cold, but clean. Very, very painfully clean. Wearing one of the towels the male had left her earlier, she busied herself with the undergarments to her armor next, simply washing them by hand with the death-soap and doing her best. It took the better part of an hour, but she desperately needed the time to think anyway.... though she wasn't getting much in the way of answers. All she really knew for sure is that she was definitely not in the practice field she was supposed to be transported to. In fact, she hadn't even come through a secondary gate as best she could tell. She'd looked, and hadn't been able to find one.

Wasn't that impossible? How could someone go through a transport gate and just poof into existence somewhere, without a corresponding gate? Unless this was another one of those lovely tests she hated so much. Sure, lets toss one of the Spartans into the experimental transporter. Why not, right? At least they'd survive. Probably. Oh, but lets not tell them, because that would ruin the fun.

Hissing in her frustration, Tayce slapped the fabric against the floor by the drain, getting as much water and anger out as possible. Reaching out for her breathing compressor, she took a long drag on the hose, really trying to reach down and pretend she could feel her lungs opening. In, and then slowly out. Again. It helped clear her mind, something so simple as breathing, and she couldn't take it for granted. It always bothered her to remember what they'd done to her, her body.

She shoved the memories away with practiced force, taking another deep breath, assisted by her compressor. No sense dealing with things in the past, and besides, the now was difficult enough. Putting down her compressor, she wheezed as she rose to her feet and went to the grungy mirror above the sink. Her hair was spiking all over the place, perhaps from the harsh soap, and she was without a brush. Frowning, she did the best she could with her fingers before donning the bandana that had been handed to her earlier. Wasn't pretty, but at least it hid the mess for now. She untucked her long bangs from the fabric and then got an idea.

Fetching her compressor, she fiddled with it and her new headscarf until it was held against her head behind her ear, just close enough that she could put the tube in her mouth comfortably. Genius! Somehow that small thing made her feel infinitely better, now that at least something had worked out. Now what she wouldn't do for a tooth brush.

Making do with the corner of her towel, Tayce spent the next hour and some getting the worst of the grime off of her armor and arranging it on the floor in a much neater fashion. Which brought her to the odd glove. And maybe finding something to stuff into her mouth. And clothes. Clothes would be much appreciated.

Exploring her new safe house, Tayce wrinkled her nose at the mess. Boys. Would it be wrong of her to clean it up a bit? Huffing, she threw her hands up and left the main room. It probably was, or at least rude, and she really didn't want to get kicked out. The moment she stepped into the bedroom though, she was hit with a sensory wall of male, mostly made up of the smell. Backing out hurriedly, she quickly decided there wasn't really anything in there she wanted to investigate... which just left her with the well-acquainted bathroom and the main room. Fine then.

Dismantling her barricade and finally putting everything away, she looked around and thought she might be able to do one better. Finding a somewhat clean and discarded towel in the main room, she wiped down the mirror and then the sink. No way was she touching the toilet. But cleaning had a kind of zen to it, especially when it wasn't your own s**t you had to shuffle around. Organizing your surroundings had a habit of helping you organize your head, or at least so it seemed. Or maybe at this point she was just trying to keep busy so she didn't have to think.

Because if she started thinking she started having trouble breathing, wondering if that male would ever come back, or if someone else was going to walk through that door. Like, if he sold her to those things that were trying to kill her before. Not things, people. She was pretty sure. Which did nothing to alleviate the fear. Or how she would get home. Which of course led to trying to figure out how she got here, which was another way of reminding her she had no idea where 'here' was.

And that she was totally dependent on the the kindness of a stranger who's name she didn't even know. ...Which made her wonder if he was ever coming back.

And before that thought path could loop again, Tayce diligently sought out the next thing to do. Like taking apart the rifle and paying close attention to how it dismantled so she could clean each piece as best she could and reassemble.

Which is exactly what she did with what had to be a shotgun. A lovely, lovely shotgun. This she spent a good deal more time and attention on, committing the fittings to memory and mentally comparing it to one of her own favorites back home. Alas, it was gleaming in no time and she was left to dawdle again.

Checking on her undersuit, she found the poor thing still too damp to wear, and continued living life inside a towel. Blah. Though, now that she was back in the bathroom, Tayce recalled scrambling to search for the silvery-black sleeve that the male had given her before. The one that could unlock doors. Slipping her right arm back into it as she made her way to the couch, Tayce tried to figure out how to turn the blasted thing on as she flopped down onto the much abused cushions. Making all sorts of gestures, even rude ones, she fiddled with the fabric, trying to figure out the on-switch. Or even how the dang thing ran. Maybe off bio-electricity?