Transplanted Life
Monday, September 26, 2005
What's scary is how little it actually matters to me.
Agent Jones called today. Dimitri Gubanov is dead.

He doesn't think it's got anything to do with me. Apparently nobody in prison liked him, either, and he got a knife in the back. They're going to perform an autopsy anyway, make sure there are no little nanobuggers in his brain or bloodstream or anything. Be a nifty way to escape prison, wouldn't it, if you don't mind the new physiology and haven't come to the understanding that you wouldn't be yourself.

He didn't talk at all during his incarceration. That used to get me so angry, back when I didn't look at having my mind switched back as being a kind of death. Now, I have to say, honestly, I don't worry about it. I let the FBI work on tracking the actual inventor or manufacturer of this technology down, since I'm mostly cool with who I am and don't really think about becoming Martin Hartle once more. It's just practical stuff about living my current life, getting it squared away officially, that concerns me now. I don't think I've even thought of Dimitri in a couple of months. Which is strange, given how responsible he is for me being who and what I am.

So, anyway, ongoing investigation. Creepy, since it's someone that I know, and I think of Alexei in his coma having no idea he's outlived his son.

Now this brings to mind questions about the whereabouts and what-have-yous of Michelle, and how's Samantha getting along these days.
Are you sure it was Jones, and not Dmitri-in-a-Jones-suit, who called you? Did you have previously-arranged passphrases for this?
The sad part is that Russian men in general tend that way. Coarse, grasping, selfish and stupid. There are always exceptions, but they rarely seem to be those who wind up immigrating.
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