Dropping his bag next to the door, Tyrving continues through the rest of his living room and into the kitchen. The whole space used to be a large meeting room for the company Pantheon took over, but has since been remodeled to be a home of sorts for the cybernetic agent.

A set of three colored tubes slink from their cabinet-bound holsters like snakes, slithering through the air towards him. Unbuttoning his shirt, Tyrving slides the clothing off his shoulders and cranes his head to the left, giving the tubes access to his neck.

All three sink their needles into his skin painlessly, pumping nutrients, water, and fuel for his reaction core into his body. It’s not a lot, but fortunately, he doesn’t need a lot for long-term function with how efficient his systems are.

A sigh escapes his lips as the tubes disconnect, reeling back into their holes in his cabinets. His hands pull the collar of his shirt back over his shoulders, but he doesn’t bother buttoning it back up.

“Perrin, could I get your help with some things?” He requests, though there isn’t anyone around to hear him.

“Of course, sir. What might I help you with?” Perrin responds, his spherical shape flickering into existence above Tyrving’s dining table.

Splitting and shifting like a basketball-sized Rubix cube, the relatively basic AI model bobs in place, waiting for instruction.

“I’d like some help picking out an outfit to meet an old friend in. Something nice but disposable; I’m not counting on it surviving the occasion.”

The sphere changes color, dying the table around it blue as it shifts. “Certainly. Would you like me to open access to your locker as well?”

Tyrving ponders the question for a moment, walking through his bedroom door. The room is decorated, various books and trinkets resting on shelves and display cases, but it would be hard to call the place “lived in.” A king-sized bed takes up the lion's share of the room, but it looks like it hasn’t been touched in months.

Which would make sense, since it hasn’t.

“Yeah, if you would. He’s not the type to forgive me for being unprepared. Mugen should also be sending me a dossier on Vermaine in the next few minutes; could you read that out for me?” Tyrving asks, stripping and setting his clothes on his armchair.

Perrin flickers into the room, hovering over the bedside table. “Consider it done. The shower is at your preferred temperature as well, whenever you’re ready.”

“Thanks, P.”

He walks past an already foggy mirror, glancing at his blurred shape in its reflection. Not that it really matters that it’s foggy, he wouldn’t recognize the face looking back at him as his own anyways.

Nearly scalding water pours down onto his form, the entire roof of the shower serving as a faucet. He runs his hands through his new curly hair, black strands clinging to his neck and shoulders. There’s no grease or dead skin to wash off, the feeling of a shower just keeps him grounded; reminds him of the person he was before almost everything was replaced.

"Mugen's message has arrived, sir. There are 39 documents within. Would you like me to read it aloud?” Perrin asks, his voice clear within the shower.

Tyrving rests his forehead against the cool tiled walls, appreciating the contrasting temperature. “Give me the cliff notes, I’ll read through it properly on the way there.”

“As you wish. One moment while I shorten this into something palatable.” It says, the word palatable hitching somewhat as its processing power focuses on a new task. “According to Vermaines wiki as well as a collection of bloggers who reside or visit there, it’s a relatively small town focused on its historical roots and serves as a ‘living museum’ of sorts. They have one of the three open range bovine farms remaining in the world, and continue to use physical chits to this day.”

A small grin forms on Tyrvings lips at the factoid about chits, though it fades away as he turns the shower off and the warmness suffusing him dissipates.

“That sounds right up his alley, what are the people like?”

“According to a Molana Taff, Blunt to the point of rudeness, Gruff in nature, and extremely family oriented.” Perrin quotes, playing what must be the woman's own audio as he speaks.

“That’s doable, show me the average facial structure of a thirty year old man living there.” Tyrving says, stepping out of the shower. Hot air blows on him from several directions, doing its best to dry the man.

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“Will this suffice?” Perrin asks, displaying an image on the quickly clearing mirror of a stern looking man with high cheekbones and a strong jaw.

Tyrving’s face shifts, the various “bones” within it adjusting to look more like ones in the picture. “It’ll do just fine.”

He stares at himself for a bit, doing his best to settle the unease of having a different person stare back at him than he’s used to. It never really goes away, but it becomes less prominent after taking on an identity for a while.

“What do you think I should do, Perrin?” He asks, but he knows the AI won’t have an answer. “If it came down to it, I’m pretty sure I could kill him, but as long as he has my [BANE] codes it doesn’t matter who wins. I’ll still die.”

Perrins sphere fizzles a bit from where it’s floating, it’s old tech having trouble keeping up with the agent's demands. “Apologies, sir, my logic is unable to comprehend this topic. Would you like me to connect you with someone who can?”

“No, you’re fine. Go ahead and shut off for now.”

The sphere winks out, turning itself off at his command.

“There isn’t much of a good answer anyways, I don’t want him dead regardless.” He admits, walking out of the bathroom and into his bedroom.

What was previously a book shelf is now split in half perfectly, opening to reveal a stairway downward. Bright fluorescent lights flick on as he descends, revealing the mildly horrifying sight of dozens of limbs and digits neatly organized all around him.

Wires and connectors jut out of their bases, and small electronic screens display the specs of each one and what they do.

[GYRE SHOT]

[EMP]

[BALLISTIC NET]

Tyrving walks past them all, turning around and backing himself into a set of clamps that hold him upright by his torso.

“Attach arms set J2, right leg E6, hands M1 and R1, and adjust systems to draw more power from core.”

Mechanical arms whirr to life, swinging swiftly but precisely as they grab various prosthetic limbs around the room and bring them to Tyrving, replacing his current limbs. His chest opens in several sections like the exterior of a vent, revealing a teal-blue glowing contraption in the middle of his chest. Smaller hands slip inside those panels, adjusting and tweaking the machinery within.

The whole process is swift enough that any loss of sensation in the replaced limbs is negligible, and has him walking as soon as the clamps let go. He rotates his arms, swinging them around as he adjusts to the minute differences between his last set.

Satisfied with their performance, Tyrving walks back up the stairs. The lights turn off behind him, and he presses in a nondescript book—the previous Odin was obsessed with bookshelf doors—closing access to the locker.

The clothes he set on his chair have disappeared, replaced by a dark brown woolen suit. His fingers pinch the fabric, but he swiftly turns off sensation to that texture as it bothers him.

“I can’t say I love it, nor do I have any idea where it came from, but Marcus would never expect me to wear something like this, so it’s perfect.”

He’s slipped on the undershirt and pants when a neural ping from Tuna grabs his attention.

“Ya dressed yet? I wanna show you something.”

Considering Tuna’s surprises in the past, an unease infiltrates his mind.

“Almost. If you do something unsavory, there will be a reckoning.” He sends back, his unease growing every moment he doesn’t get a response.

Eventually he stops waiting, slipping the rest of his outfit on and getting ready. His bag next to the door slips over his shoulder, and he turns the handle of the door to go outside.

Only to find himself staring down the barrel of a gun.

A plastic gun. One with a neon orange tip.

“Tuna, I believe this falls within the description of unsavory. Even with the obvious orange tip, there are plenty of agents paranoid enough to shoot long before noticing that.” Tyrving says, using a finger to push the gun away.

To their credit, they do look somewhat ashamed as they holster their prop pistol. “Yeah, I know. I wouldn’t have done it with anyone but you. What do you think?”

Tyrving looks at them properly, taking note of the long, curly blonde wig, and the jacket they were supposed to dispose of earlier. A great collection of belts wrap around their torso, and a pair of pitch black knee-high boots lift them a few inches off the ground.

“Can’t say I recognize it, but it looks good. What is this one from?”

Chest swelling with pride, Tuna lifts their chin. “It’s Patricia Matrekhov from Morningstar Duelists; I’ve been wanting to cosplay it ever since you bought that jacket for Plinth.”

Half of his laugh gets caught in his throat, turning it into something of a bark-cough.

“If you wanted it for that, you should have just asked; I think I wore it like four times before it got gooped.”

They shake their head, causing their wig to tilt a smidge. “Nah, it’s better this way. I don’t get the chance to tease you about something very often, after all.”

"Well, don't count on it happening again,” He retorts, though it means something quite different to him than it does to Tuna.

They seem to pick up on it, seriousness taking over their expression. “You worried?”

His eyes stare off, thinking about how he wants to answer. “Just a little out of sorts. It’s nothing I can’t handle; the past just has a way of getting under my skin.”

Tuna’s lips purse, twisting in displeasure. “You’re bullshitting again. I’ve been your handler for a decade now; I can tell it’s worse than that.”

“If that were the case, then you’d also know I’m not the type to talk about it when I am worried.”

“Would you make an exception if I was an AI like Perrin?”

Tyrving whips around, looking upset. “Have you been hacking into my systems?”

Tuna’s tone is flat as they respond: “Nope, just made a guess based on one of Odin’s comments.”

They walk in silence for a moment, neither of them sure how to proceed. The bland gray walls of the building the only thing they see. It’s only once they get to the door to the hanger that Tuna speaks up again.

“That was cruel of me; I hope I didn’t hurt you by saying that.”

Tyrving stops his hand halfway to the door’s handle, pulling it back and looking at the Daemon. “That wasn’t the issue, don’t worry.” He says, shaking his head. “I’m not used to being seen through like that, is all. Rattled me more than expected.”

“So I haven’t ruined everything between us forever?”

“Hardly. I’d be remiss if I let one comment get rid of the best handler I’ve ever had.” He scoffs, Tuna’s own nervousness helping to calm some of his own nerves.

They elbow his ribs gently, fixing their wig with their other hand. “That’s the kind of comment that’ll give someone hope, you know.”

An exasperated sigh escapes his lips, his hand grasping the door handle. “Then I guess I better retract it before someone gets ideas.”