The waiting room just off the docks of The Body Shop was hardly normal. Heck, The Body Shop itself was hardly normal. The core of the station was a prison liner, but built from the scrap was a station, with functioning docking bays, control towers, and a weapons defence system rivalling that of Military installations. It hovered above Detroit, the scrap from which it was made, the wrecks of Xeno or Junker outposts and other technology from ages past that had been long forgotten.
Instead of the expected sterile white room, a place which could've been stripped right out of Manhattan's nightclubs greeted the visitors. Music played in the background, and groups of people scattered the tables, either waiting for their appointed modifications or recovering from them. Some even came back just for the club environment...
The current group of people in the club environment served as an example of some of the things the Shop did. Varying from the minor as ear piercings, to the bizarre, such as a man with tattoos down his arms and a row of spikes seemingly drilled into the top of his bare head. The receptionist herself was an example of their work, her arms from the shoulder down covered in what appeared, for all purposes, to be scales, designed to look like that of a dragon. A deep, deep purple and shining like polished metal, no visible joins or seals adorned her arms, and the scales moved perfectly with her skin as they shifted over one another. The underside of each arm was uncovered, leaving her hands able to work at their full efficiency. She had black hair, dyed with red tips, and wore a pair of black cargo pants and a tank-top. Her only other noticable modification was a small lip piercing on the left side, a square prism a few millimetres across, of the same colour as her 'scales'.
A path was clear from the door to the reception desk, and several steel doors branched off from the room, presumably going to the work stations.
A million dollars isn't cool. You know what is cool? A basilisk.