Rasputin scratched at the insect-bites under his coarse linen shirt and scowled at the photographer.
They’d taken his weapons, clothes, implants and external devices and flung him amidst the byways, as vulnerable to the vortices as some ignorant primitive from an un-contacted world. The Commission had said that he was going to 21st Century Paderborn, but they didn’t tell him about the little detour they’d need him to make on the way.
They hadn’t told him he’d end up in a 19th Century dungeon cell, lying amidst filth and flea infested straw, posing for the sake of some cretinous aristocrat with a penchant for peasant theatre. His heart had sunk when the directive appeared in his mind. He was to be a steward for one Baron Louis Adolphe Humbert de Molard, gaining his trust and confidence before receiving further instructions.
“That’s it Louis! Show me those smouldering eyes! Pout a bit, that’s right, good, good!” said the Baron, scampering about the cell as he moved his camera tripod and threw the cloth cover over his head. Another flash, the scent of burnt phosphorous and saltpetre filled the dank air.
After he’d found the traitor, and retrieved his equipment, there’d be hell to pay.