Well, you're not keen on the idea of the company holding your scans in perpetuity, but you really need the extra cash, so you reluctantly sign the extended use waiver.
"Perfect!" smiles Rosa, "Then just lie back in the chair and we can get started!"
You hesitantly do as she says, reclining on the smooth plastic as she pivots a massive machine up over your head.
"Just hold still," she says pleasantly. "This won't hurt a bit."
Happily, she flips a button on the console, and the world goes black.
------------------------
Hazily, you begin to make out the sound of angry, shouting voices, punctuated with increasing frequency by rumbles and crashes that sound uncomfortably like explosions.
"I told you, we're out of time!" shouts angry voice number one. "They're already past the secondary barricades. We'll never get more profiles cloned before they get here!"
"Just a few more seconds, lieutenant!" comes the reply. "I've almost got the last of the commandeered bots reimaged. We're out of the stock profiles, but I found a whole other bank on the research drives! A bunch of old reference scans from back when the tech was being developed! They're not mil-spec, but they'll be ready in a fraction of the time!"
"I respect your tenacity, specialist, but if they're not mil-spec, they can't even hold a rifle. Just take the bots you've finished and get to the shuttle. We'll just have to make do with what we have."
"That's just it, sir! These scans are so old, they don't even have violence blocks! No modifications at all, in fact—the tech wasn't even developed at the time! They're not combat profiles, but they'll be able to shoot! Give me thirty seconds!"
"Fine. Thirty seconds. Then we leave, bots or no bots."
Another rumble shakes the room, and sparks fly ominously from the ceiling as your vision begins to clear. You groan groggily.
"There!" says the eager voice, "They're coming online now!"
Completely confused, you sit up unsteadily and look around. You seem to be lying in the middle of a room, amidst a pile of… dead bodies?
No, not dead. Some of them seem to be waking up, same as you. Some faster than you, in fact.
"Where am I?" demanded one, a slender man dressed like an usher. "Rosa said this was just a picture…"
The two soldiers ignored him. The specialist instead turned to his commander.
"It looks like the newer models we commandeered from the casino and the brothel are already coming online. The rest may take a few more minutes."
"Damn," said the lieutenant. "Hardly inspiring. What about the big ones from the construction crew?"
"Older models." Said the specialist, shaking his head. "Slower upload."
"Where the hell am I?" demanded another man, rising from the pile with a blinking cord in his neck. "I was just looking for some extra cash…"
The lieutenant frowned. "What's wrong with them?" He demanded.
"I told you, these are research scans. Totally raw. No acclimation adjustments—in fact, they probably even still have the memories of the people they were scanned from."
The lieutenant rolled his eyes. "Great, just what we need; a bunch of civ-spec entertainment bots that think they're people."
"But they can hold a rifle, sir."
The lieutenant grunted. "Fine. We're out of time anyway. Let's get the hell out of here."
By this time, you're mostly fully awake, and able to look around in earnest. About a third of the pile of bodies is getting up, pulling heavy wires from their necks in confusion. They look like people, but did that guy say they were actually robots or something? This is seriously freaky.
And why in the world did someone put you in here with all those weird androids or whatever?
A sinking feeling suddenly overwhelms your stomach.
You look down.
Your scream joins the cacophony.
This body is not your body. For one thing, a massive black wire protrudes from you neck. For another, the words "KingTec Cybernetic Systems" are imprinted across your forearm.
Oh, and you're a girl.
An incredibly buxom girl, at that.
Glancing around, you see you're not alone. Among those moving, there are three main groups: some slender, serious men in white shirts and bow-ties, some dramatic men and women in a variety of period costumes, and finally, a few ridiculously oversexed women, diverse in appearance but uniformly dressed like complete whores. It takes no time at all to realize which group you come from.
"Get it together, chipheads!" shouts the lieutenant. "It's time to move!"
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