Big Corp only calls him in when somebody fucks up. Augmented "agents" are always thinking they're God. Throw a new pair of hypoallergenic, industrial metal in someone's arms, legs, lungs, and they think the world is theirs.
There's seventy-nine floors in the building because sponsors wanted builders to skip the thirteenth. The elevator ride up seems slow only because Reggie is left leaning against the back corner of the box and watching the blinking buttons as he rises. The display at the top ticks: thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.
Finch smells like an ashtray and has a potty mouth. You can't miss 'im.
A part of him wishes he could get a few years off his sentence just for running a patch-up on the other guys. As if working his way around electronics isn't enough--bombs, hackers, mass-murdering domestic terrorists too poor to afford the zombie prescription and too hyped up on the illegal ones.
The NSA wasn't joking around. When he's deposited on the sixtieth floor, he can smell cigarette smoke lingering in the office with no opening windows.
Naturally, Reggie didn't know what to expect. Everyone is different, but most guys here are loud, brash, and built like a freight carrier. The ones who do the dirty work.
The legs stretching to the desk are lean, the shoes too casual, not steel-toed boots. Carefully, he reaches up and flips the light switch on the side of the wall, banishing the darkness and the city light filtering in through the windows. Wow. Definitely not the run of the mill criminal.
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There's seventy-nine floors in the building because sponsors wanted builders to skip the thirteenth. The elevator ride up seems slow only because Reggie is left leaning against the back corner of the box and watching the blinking buttons as he rises. The display at the top ticks: thirty-three, thirty-four, thirty-five.
Finch smells like an ashtray and has a potty mouth. You can't miss 'im.
A part of him wishes he could get a few years off his sentence just for running a patch-up on the other guys. As if working his way around electronics isn't enough--bombs, hackers, mass-murdering domestic terrorists too poor to afford the zombie prescription and too hyped up on the illegal ones.
The NSA wasn't joking around. When he's deposited on the sixtieth floor, he can smell cigarette smoke lingering in the office with no opening windows.
Naturally, Reggie didn't know what to expect. Everyone is different, but most guys here are loud, brash, and built like a freight carrier. The ones who do the dirty work.
The legs stretching to the desk are lean, the shoes too casual, not steel-toed boots. Carefully, he reaches up and flips the light switch on the side of the wall, banishing the darkness and the city light filtering in through the windows. Wow. Definitely not the run of the mill criminal.
"Doctor's in."
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