Chaplain Evan Michaels blinked tiredly as the one-man hover platform he stood upon silently drifted through the labyrinthine corridors deep beneath NORAD and Cheyenne Mountain. Not only did the complex rat''s nest of tunnels and chambers stretch for miles in all directions, Evan was certain the perverse little conveyance was sailing towards his appointment in the most mind-numbingly circuitous route possible.Not that it isn''t necessary, the man reminded himself sourly,but my feet are killing me!


    Oh, yes, it was necessary. Untold thousands of government legacies, some still top-secret and others all but forgotten with the passage of time, lay behind the endless parade of ubiquitous blast doors like existential prisoners with eternal sentences. The layout wasmeant to be both hideously complex and transcendentally bland at the same time. Whoever entered those halls without permission would wander forever, never finding a way out. The hover platform also played a hand in the deception: It always took the same amount to time to get to any destination, alternatively speeding up and slowing down at random intervals, and the ride was just uncomfortable enough to make its passenger focus more on their own suffering rather than trying to mentally map their route.


    Those who were typically sent into the catacombs of NORAD were strapping young soldiers who had somehow managed to get on the brass''s shit list for one indescretion too many; their moans of pain and general discomfort would echo up and down the tunnels in a spooky fashion as they retrieved or returned items and documents to and from their storage cells. Evan, neither young nor strapping anymore but as solid as a full beer keg nonetheless, merely gritted his teeth behind an otherwise expressionless, leathery face and uttered not a sound. The only visual cue to his misery was a single bead of sweat that slowly traced its way downward from the crown of his bald head until it was absorbed by the collar of his one piece uniform jumpsuit.


    Eventually, the platform drew to a stop and lowered itself to the floor in front of a specific door. It was a simple and straightforward door just like all the others stretching away into the distance on either side of it, or like the ones on the opposite side of the tunnel, a utilitarian monstrosity of steel and concrete designed to withstand nukes and earthquakes as easily as breaching explosives and cutting torches. To its right was a simple palm-scanner installed into the wall. There were no markings anywhere; Evan was forced to rely on the positioning of the hover platform to inform him that it was indeed the location of his appointment.


    Chaplain Michaels took a moment to steel himself, then spoke. "Smartwear: Psychiatric subset." With a slight rustle of fabric-on-fabric, the jumpsuit obediently altered not only the weave but also the thickness, consistency, and color of its threads. Once it settled back into dormancy Evan appeared to be wearing a simple and understated tweed suit. A pair of wire-rim glasses, note pad, and pencil were extracted from a jacket pocket to complete the look, and with that the old soldier was ready. His appointment liked the little touches; he, and those like him, were quirky in that way.


    The blast door opened ponderously in response to Evan''s palm print, and swung silently shut as he stepped inside. The interior was plain, white, and again unmarked, a six-by-twelve space that wouldn''t be out of place in any federal prison. One folding chair was planted in the center of the cell, a single camera stood on a tripod facing the chair, and a holographic resonator sat on the floor while projecting a simple screen with a basic command prompt on the far wall. All three items were there for the Chaplain''s benefit, and would be removed later when the appointment was over.


    The holoscreen flashed to life as Evan gratefully took the proferred seat. The words <Good day, Chaplain Michaels.> printed themselves in an instant.


    Evan snorted, "What, no audio?" His voice bounced around the cell like a ping-pong ball, but by this point the old man was used to the noise.


    <The brass deemed it unnecessary at this juncture. Shall we begin?>


    "...Pain in the ass. Fine, fine." Evan flipped open his notebook, tapped the first page with his pencil, and gave a good-natured snort as the notebook resolved itself into an electronic tablet. "Recorder active and synchronized. For the record, I am Chaplain Evan Michaels, United States Army, rating classification D-42-Sigma, rank of Lieutenant, 43 years of distinguished service, and this is my final psychiatric analysis of patient # 14446022-R pending honourable discharge."


    <For the record, I am patient # 14446022-R, designated ROQ-T357-Alpha, callsign "Rock." Technically, I am assigned directly to the Pentagon as opposed to any specific service branch, nor do I hold any official rank. Until discharge, I am directly responsible for the control of two-thirds of the United State''s orbital defense grid. I have humbly served in this position throughout my twenty-seven years of life, and look forward to the so-called "retirement." I am a Core Child.>


    Evan nodded thoughtfully and leaned back against his folding chair, balancing it on its back feet. "Do you regret becoming a Core Child?"


    <Regret would mean I had a hand in the decision-making process. I did not cause the artificial womb I was gestating within to break down, nor did I choose the resulting mutations and defects that rendered my infant body incapable of preserving life.>


    "But you are frustrated."


    <I cannot disagree with that assessment. I will never know what it is like to eat, drink, walk, talk, laugh, love, or otherwise live like an ordinary human being in this physical reality, for I am nothing more than a few pounds of gray matter sealed behind five tons of protective alloys, life support mechanisms, and enough quantum-based trinary code co-processors to either take over the planet or, possibly, figure out "The Colonel''s" secret chicken recipe.>


    "Pffft." Evan slapped his thigh. "Not allthat frustrated if you can crack jokes. Okay then, mister Brain-In-A-Jar, why retirement?" The chaplain lowered the front feet of the chair to the ground as he crossed his legs and waved his electronic notepad in no particular direction. "Your records say you''re responsible for saving the whole damn country three times already: You shot down ICBMs during the Iranian Conflict, sank a Russian invasion fleet off the coast of Washington during the third World War, and shattered a rogue asteroid that had Hawaii in its crosshairs. Why give up your position as one of America''s "secret heroes" for a life that you''ve already admitted isn''t a life at all?"Stolen content alert: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.


    <I grow tired of the responsibility, and I long for change. I fear that I will grow lax in my duties as a result, thus inviting catastrophe. It is better that I step down from my position, giving it over to someone younger and more vigorous.>


    "You''re only twenty-seven, God only knows how long a Core Child can actually live. I believe you''re being a bit premature."


    <Twenty-seven does not seem like much from the baseline human perspective, but I did not get to enjoy eighteen years of relative childhood. I was modified and sleep-trained in a matter of weeks, and I have defended the country ever since. I am tired, Chaplain Michaels. It is time to retire from active service.> The words scrolling across the holographic screen paused a moment, then continued. <As to how I shall go about living a genuine life, well, I already am aware that such a thing is impossible. Both the technology that I am fused with and the secrets I hold are far too valuable to ever let me physically leave this place, and even if I could the closest I can ever come to interacting with the outside world is via remotely-controlled devices.>


    "The law..."


    <Correct. Humanoid mechanisms are outlawed in the private sector, as the level of technology required to make one both look and move the same way any other human looks and moves would produce a machine that vastly exceeds the physical capabilities of mankind. It is too dangerous, thus, Core Children like myself are forced to interact with ordinary people using remote machines that invite nothing but ridicule and scorn.>


    "Trashcans on wheels."


    <Just so; I, who have dedicated my everything to preserving the American way of life, cannot accept being treated in such a boorish fashion just because I have chosen to step back and join civilian society.>


    Evan shook his head. "Of course not, I don''t blame you. At the same time, explain how this brought you to virtual reality."


    <VR fills all the aforementioned requirements to actually live, as opposed to merely surviving on the fringes of real-world culture. Ever-increasing numbers of Beta-class Core Children are transitioning to a virtual lifestyle outside of work. Those whose careers do not require conscious attention to the job''s minutia are abandoning the real world altogether in preference to a virtual life. This trend would not be occurring, especially not at its current rate, if virtual life were somehow unsatisfactory compared to the real world.>


    "Okay, but, is living in a game world really going to cut it? I didn''t figure you for an MMO junkie."


    <Not all VR applications operate according game rules. However, due to their popularity, the most complete virtual worlds offered to consumers are in fact games. Naturally, the more complete the virtual world is the more "realistic" the experience it provides. Also, keep in mind that what might not be "real enough" for a baseline human like yourself is quite possibly "real enough" for a Core Child. After all, we do not have much to compare a virtual experience to.>


    "Have you tried it?"


    <A few times. Only with anonymous guest passes and heavy encryption; never with the same application twice. I know full-well how many groups and individuals are either contemplating or are actively engaged in attempted hacks to my systems. I know that a permanent dive like the one I am preparing for will potentially leave a dangerous back door. I have established... precautions.>


    "How so?"


    <There are 17,592 virtually real MMORPGs that are not only exclusively on the American market, but can only be accessed with "full dive" gear within the borders of the United States. "Full dive" gear does not allow for externally-manipulated reprogramming. As such anyone who wishes to hack my systems through this new back door must do so from inside the VR system architecture. This means they must not only pay sufficient funds to purchase and maintain such gear, which is traceable, they must also attempt the hack within the United States where we have jurisdiction. This will serve as a powerful deterrent to foreign agents seeking access to information regarding our orbital defense systems.>


    "That won''t necessarily deter home-grown troublemakers who already have the tools and the talent on-site with plausibly deniable excuses."


    <You refer to corporate spies, perhaps after the blueprints to my co-processors?>


    "Them, or politicians paying someone for info to score points with, criminals out to hijack your support software and hold it for ransom, hell, even some rich kid too stupid to know right from wrong and too bored to care."


    <All dangerous, but none of them are unstoppable. I have been developing my encryption protocols for twenty-seven years, after all: It will take far more effort than a random criminal or bored rich kid will be willing to make to bypass my protections. As for the others, let alone breaching my defenses, they will have to find me first.>


    "Oh?"


    <I intend to use a dummy account with supporting documentation to access one of the largest U.S.-exclusive MMOs available in order to camouflage my data trail among millions of fellow subscribers, including thousands of other Core Children like myself. After all, the best place to hide a book is in a library. The bigger the library is, the better hidden the book.>


    "You forged documentation?"


    <With permission. Think of it as a glorified witness protection program, save that my goal is not to give testimony to a crime but rather prevent a crime from being committed. At the same time I shall learn what it feels like to truly be alive, perhaps even to the degree that you understand the term, Chaplain Michaels.>


    Evan sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose. "This sounds like a big gamble for a cheap payout. Do you honestly believe that it''s really worth the effort?"


    <You are a chaplain before you are a psychiatrist; there are some who ridicule you for your belief in a higher power. "How do you know?" "Can you prove it?" These demands are made of you often, and the only honest answer you can offer is "I believe, and that is enough for me." I will never know if a virtual life in a virtual body is superior, inferior, or equal to a real life in a real body, but I believe that a virtual life with a virtual body is superior to real-world survival trapped within an iron cyst. That is enough for me.>


    "Very well, let''s move on. To avoid potential recognition, you can''t use your designation or your callsign. How do you intend to refer to yourself?"


    <By reimagining both my designation and my callsign into something new enough not to be noticed by outsiders, but sufficiently similar that I will naturally identify with it. The callsign "Rock" originated from the "ROQ" in my designation, after all.>


    "And?"


    <By taking the other portion of my designation, "T357-Alpha," I came up with "Tesla." Then, to keep to the original feel of my callsign, I chose "Stone." Thus, I shall be known as Tesla Stone.>