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 was meant 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 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.

"...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."

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

"But you are frustrated."

"Pffft." Evan slapped his thigh. "Not all that 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?"

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

The words scrolling across the holographic screen paused a moment, then continued.

"The law..."

"Trashcans on wheels."

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

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

"Have you tried it?"

"How so?"

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

"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."

"Oh?"

"You forged documentation?"

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?"

"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?"

"And?"