The shell hung limply in the darkened alcove, inert.
Presently, a cascade of lights swooshed down the smooth surface of the alcove, and a host of umbilicals snaked out to seize onto the shell. It seemed to shiver, and then sagged slightly further into the alcove. The umbilicals disconnected and the shell switched on.
“Marvellous!” it said.
It ran a hand through its hair, slightly shaky. “Sync status?” From the alcove a voice softly replied “[Sync complete]”.
“Marvellous!” said Frank Hawthorne. He crossed the room to a full-length mirror and studied the shell – his shell. “They have captured me perfectly” he pronounced.
In fact, Frank Hawthorn could barely remember what his birthshell had looked like. He had long ago traded the last vestigial flesh and bone for a sleek synthetic physique.
He felt sure that the flawless complexion he now beheld was a much truer representation of his inner self, the self he really deserved to be, than any crude biological remnant.
“This model,” he mused, “is even more like me than last year’s.”