But, the Dentons. Paul and JC begin working alongside him, nano-augmented agents whose microscopic modifications render them indistinguishable from the public at large, and the seed of doubt is sprouted. He may be replaced, disassembled to make room for more Nano-Augs. He realizes, if he had waited to become an agent, he might not have had to do these awful things. Had he waited, he might've been a candidate for nano-augmentation, and not become a "mech", a "freak".
He could even have chosen an entirely different path, never leaving that farm in Graubunden, never giving up his dear Nadia. He could have been felling trees outside of Sils im Engaden, working hard from dawn to dusk, and then going home to a roast beast and a drink. He can almost taste the wine slipping down his throat, a Grisons, taking refuge within him to warm his bones.
But that was ages ago, another time. Now is the hour of lubricated servos and flourescent lights, of orange soda and soy food. Of cold. His life is no longer his, he is part of something else. He soldiers forward, what were once his feet now nothing but fusion between steel and boot. He never stumbles, not once. He does his best to fight, but there is no place for his flamethrower or his plasma rifle anymore. Things are more subtle now, more surgical. He cannot use a stealth pistol, his fingers are too large and stiff, like frozen sausages. Why is it always so cold here?
People move away from him, turn away, fall away. Joseph Manderley, his supervisor; Private Lloyd, just a boy; Anna Navarre, pale Anna, the best approximation of a kindred spirit, borne away under the rocks of man. A dank catacomb in Paris. How is it still so cold? The niter clogs what is left of his lungs. A word, and he flies to pieces. How did it come to this? The dark: one thought, a memory of high mountains with white cliffs, the cobblestones are cool as they meet his feet. Going home. I am not a machine.