The chamber was far from a dank hole with bad lightning and amazing ambiance. Instead it was one of the new kinds of Gifted strip malls, a complex buried a mile or more under a mountain in Virginia. It resembled an old wagon wheel dug into the earth, a government central core surrounded by individual labs with spoke hallways leading to them. One way out, which of course could be sealed in case of an emergency.

It reminded me of the kind of crap you see in the newer movies, the movie of the week kind. All fluorescent track lighting
and shades of white. I'd have preferred the crumbling old castle or dilapidated mansion of yesteryear, personally. Of course
my movie had become a bad movie plot anyway, so it fit after a fashion.

And of course this was the only place my loving government would, after a day of arguing thinly veiled as 'discussion',
would set up the chair.

The chair was literally a chair, but it was also the only diagnostic tool/power outlet I was capable of interfacing. Or the only one I knew I was capable of interfacing. Any attempt to use something else was most likely doomed to failure, which is why I had my best friend install it in the first place... otherwise the government would have it sitting in a warehouse gathering dust while I ran out of power and died.

Then I'd be in the warehouse, crated up gathering dust while my brain leaked out of this shell's ears. But I didn't need
to be a cynic, I had a bit of pull within the current administration. So instead of needing to worry how I was going to convert to household voltage, I got the chair, the computers it hooked up to, and even two gifted assistants to cater to my every whim... while they tried to figure out what made me tick. (Sometimes, I did tick; I could hear it, it was very
distracting!)

Before I could track down the source of the rogue ticking sound, assistant number one looked up from where he was double-
checking the welded connections to the chair, once more placed rather conspicuously in the center of a large chamber.

"Oh, hi there, I'm Herb, pleased to meet you."

A distracted wave in our general direction and he was back at work, mask down and welding a spot here, a spot there. That
was the cue the other gifted (a rather shy woman tending the computer screens hooked up to the chair, watching the feeds)
was looking for.

"Hi, my name is Laura, we're the team assigned to this rather fascinating project." She was directing her statements at Marc;
I wasn't sure what the project was, as far as I knew we just got one of the spokes in the complex wheel for my maintenance. I
also didn't like being ignored.

"Hi, I'm Kaname." I replied a trifle loudly, causing her to blink. She recovered quickly though.

"Hi, I'm Laura. The chair is almost set up. How is your battery status?"

-Query battery status-
--Battery 58%--

"Still green. Barely. So if you don't mind me asking, what is your prior experience in cyborg maintenance?"

"Well Herb and I both worked on the Fujin project, and maintained him after he went live. I acted as his operator, and Herb
was his main technician. So you can see, we are eminently qualified to work on... cyborgs."

Odd hesitation there, and it drew a stern look from Marc. Must be some hush-hush thing.

"And what happened to this 'Fujin'?"

"Oh, he retired, did his full service so we pulled the combat implants and gave him the standard prosthetics; he's a civilian
now."

Herb broke in, still wielding.

"He was a whiny gint, is what he was, always trying to whine about how stupid wars are while in one. It was getting on my last
nerve. I almost made him some hello kitty themed parts for kicks. Let him see how angsty he could be when wearing bright yellow cat arms and legs or some such."

...
....
.....

"If you ever do that to me, you'd better hope you kill me first."

I don't care how bad he was, no one should treat vets that way. Besides, he couldn't have been that bad, could he? He looked up briefly.

"Nah, I wouldn't. I'm familiar with your reputation. Besides, you look more like an Asian barbie anyway."

Asian... barbie?

"Well now I know why you're here at least. Sidelined to side projects due to a massive lack of tact. And you Laura?"

Herb replied for her.

"Well there were a few rumors that she slept her way to the top."

"Herb! That's an outrageous slander!"

"I didn't say it was true, just that the rumor was floated. She transferred in with her old college prof, then didn't transfer out
with him. Then she got stuck on the Fujin project with me. The rumor mill went crazy."

Laura slapped him on the shoulder; he didn't seem to notice or care.

Ahh well, I couldn't look the gift horse in the mouth as it were; I was lucky Marc and I had this much pull, since officially I
was retired. I just knew a bill would come due for all this though, and I doubted my old analyst job title would stick. A 'consultant' position was more likely. I'd draw the line at assassinations though, blackmailing be damned.

Marc made a rather forced subject change.

"Anyway, this is your new office. Don't forget that tag of course, you know how it works.Remember where it is; the apartment I managed to get for you is up topside and across the street. Many of the people working here and a few other places around. No, I'm not one of them, but I live in a similar place closer to mid town.

He clipped a name and security tag to my new suit jacket (bought for me last minute by Marc as my own clothes were trashed, it had a skirt... I didn't much care for it, but it wasn't like I would get cold.)

"Yeah I know how it works, without the tag I don't get in, then the cavalry gets called and runs around like chickens without heads. So, government facilities then? Why, increased security?"

"Increased discrete security. Your building actually has a senator's suite and a few state reps live there as well. The mayor is in mine. Wouldn't do to have government assets liquidated if we could have done something."

I knew better; but he was at least trying. Most people were given the choice to accept something like that in the United States. So while I was sure protecting me was a part of the equation, keeping an eye on me to make sure I wouldn't go crazy and murder random people while running around in the nude was probably an equal part. Or whatever paranoid bullcrap they had me doing in their scenario of the week.

Though it was odd that they would house me with the senator; potential threats aren't normally given easy access to targets of opportunity. So maybe they were working or more worried about the psychological angle. I'd have to wait and see if I had an escort. Marc handed me a debit card.

"That's your card, use it to buy whatever crap you need. I know you'll likely want your things from your old place, but they have to be inspected first. You know the drill. That BS will likely take a week or so. So just buy whatever replacement stuff you need in the meantime. You want me to escort you over?"

I did indeed know the drill. Certain Items I couldn't just get at the corner store, due to Bomb paranoia. That or death ray/giant robot paranoia.

"I'd prefer it, I'd like to know if I need to order new washing machines or whatever."

Not to mention I'd feel better knowing my main facilitator was nearby in case security gave me grief. That and the elevator ride gave us a chance to talk.

"I won't do wet-work Marc."

He looked uneasy.

"I know. But chances are you'll be pressed back into field work. I'm sure you've figured that out already."

I nodded.

"This body isn't designed for the rough stuff though, or so the doc told me. Try to use me in that type of role, and the government will make hypocrites of themselves."

"I'm aware; you've been out of the game too long in any case; you'll likely be given grunt work. Safe houses, building identities, that sort of thing. I wouldn't put using that analyst brain of yours to use out of the realm of possibility. Probably both, knowing how we work."

"I'm fine with that, bring it on. Work will keep me busy."

"You'll have to face it eventually, you know."

He had no idea. He really couldn't.

"Not if I can help it. Six months or so, and I get a body looking like mine back, or something close. Then I can slip back into my old life."

He shook his head, sadness like a heat haze around him as we stepped off the elevator and into the sunshine filled lobby of a normal office building, one housing one of those phone sales companies pimping some infomercial product I'd never heard of.

"We both know it's too late for that, even if the best case scenario happens."

I shut up, this place was too public for such a conversation. Besides, he was right. At least with Marc in charge of my case, I knew my wishes regarding casual assassinations would be respected.

The outdoors was every bit what the hints from inside had so tantalizingly promised; cold but bright, crisp and with a slight breeze which brought the effluvia of the city to the nostrils. Since this was one of the better sections of town, that meant only the smallest of hints of mold and decay. Which was mildly ironic, really.

The apartment building directly across from the office building we had just exited was called the Maneire ame; it was french, and fit me more than most, I felt. A good omen, I hoped. The place looked normal enough on the outside, sort of a knock off of an expensive hotel, but on the inside it was obviously fortified. The walls, while coated with tasteful paneling and accents, were just as obviously over a foot thick. The dim mood lighting in no way hid the many armed men, standing in evenly spaced alcoves on either side. Nor the bulletproof glass the staff were placed behind.

At least they made the attempt to hide the metal/chemical/explosive detector placed in the doorway.

I knew they had such a device, which was why it was mildly irksome to have one of the normally statue like army types break from his alcove and head our way, waving us to halt. I tried to hide my irritation as he waved a hand held version over me as if I were one of those old guys at an airport with a metal hip, then nodded, flowing back into his alcove as if he were molded there. The other people around went back to studiously ignoring him, and by extension, the rest of them.

Marc shook his head again, but the shroud of doom surrounding him had lessened.

"You look entirely too much like a kid pouting when you glare like that."

I was all ready to light into him with righteous indignation, approaching the front desk or not, other people or no, when he waved me off.

"Don't worry about it; he was just getting your metallurgical signature on file. Now that it is, he won't bother you again. That is, unless something is off about it next time, like you're coated in Semtex or something."

I closed my mouth. Made sense, I suppose. But getting a wand waved in my face every time I came in was only half the reason I was angry. If my best glare made me look, well, as if I were pouting... then what other expressions did I have that no longer worked for me now? Happiness? Sadness? Did it matter if people couldn't correctly tell what I was feeling?

I cast my mind back to the doc's robotic assistant; yes it mattered. It mattered greatly, in how I would be perceived by others, and how they would act on those perceptions. I really hoped I was reading too much into his statement. The alternative to overreaction was far worse.

We rode the elevator up to the 5th floor; I noted it was one of the new ones, capable of accommodating the cyborg bodyguards of the various VIP's that lived here. It of course, had the same vaguely horrid muzak most such rides have; only this one was full of not quite good renditions of the classics... as if Barry Mannilow were trying to play Chopin. For all I knew, maybe that was what it was.

The doors opened into the hall, and into the face of a small security detail inset behind more thick glass. This time it looked more than simply bulletproof. Probably was. The security detail was half a military squad, complete with a combat cyborg rather than large apish men in suits, so why wouldn't they have a full bunker? That also meant there was one on every floor of course. Probably a full squad too, likely the stairs were covered as well.

There were only ten doors per side of the elevator. This building was a rather large one. Marc reached the apartment 56, and gestured to me. I slid the key card in the lock, and it opened on the suspected full suite. The kitchen to my left was large enough to use in a cooking show, the living room was bigger than my entire apartment, and the five doors - three to the right, and two straight back - hinted at more. Nice to see my tax dollars at work, I suppose.

It was fully furnished of course, and with stuff that wouldn't look out of place in the Ritz... or the White House. I strongly doubted I'd need washing machines after all; I had the feeling there was a maid service.

"There is a maid service, isn't there."

"Yep, there is. This isn't the best suite they have, but it is one of the better ones, and the maid service is included. The worst places here are on the ground floors. If you've got appliances you want to save, they will be put into storage for you, the complex has storage units for each occupant in the basement."

"Cameras?"

"Standard operating procedure for V.I.P.S."

Which meant high definition cameras everywhere but the bathroom, where only high gain microphones were placed. The natives got uppity if the security types saw them shower. I'm not sure I cared... but then I'm not sure I didn't either. I did look completely human after all, and being not fully human might make it worse. I was a prude, but not a complete stranger to the sex-bot industry. I couldn't be, it was a prime motivation for the actions some people take after all.

The first door straight back was a bathroom with an inset tub large enough for three people to completely submerge themselves in it, marble sinks and a toilet hidden behind a screen. The second was a den or office, with a large wraparound desk and empty bookshelves. The three doors to the left of the entrance were all bedrooms, and very large ones. They were also completely furnished. The closets were larger than my old bathroom.

It was kind of surreal, really.

"So not a single; good to know I suppose."

"Well other than clothes I don't think I need anything."

I did not need to eat after all, and they had toiletries in the bathroom.

"Well that's all you then; enjoy, and I have work to do. Be sure to head back to your vault once you're done, the techs need to have their evil way with you."

"I understand, break a leg, preferably someone else's. And Marc... thank you."

He waved on his way out the door. I was pretty sure he felt just as bad as I did about me getting back into the business, but that was preferable to dead. At least, I was fairly sure. Oh well, time to shop.