The door shut loudly behind her, separating the rhythmic chaos of Tabor Park during rush hour from the tedious harmony of the building's lobby.  The recently obsolete connected populace synchronization routine glanced at everyone simultaneously, not noticing a single one.  Glancing back through the darkly tinted glass doors of the building, she made her way to a cheery receptionist.

    "Hello miss, can I help you," bounced off the woman's teeth.  Her hair danced circles across her shoulders, and fell in front of an enchanting eye, only to be pushed back out of the way.

    "I um...I'd like to make an appointment," she stuttered, "whuh-with the-with Mister Smeethington."  She stared at her shaky fingers, imagining guns pressed to her head, a knife entering the back of her throat, knuckles knocking at her spine.  Instead, the world around her stayed uniquely dull.

    The receptionist eyeballed the girl hesitantly.  "Great, he'll probably be available this Friday, but you're welcome to head downstairs...I guess," she chirped, "Take the elevator on the right."  She paused for another moment, not losing her grin.  "Have a nice day!"

    The program adopted a false half-grin, her recently limited programming unable to achieve such an emotional variation.  Five times on the snort walk toward the elevator she conceived images of agents, sweepers, the captain's men all crashing through the doors, windows, ceiling, and painting her across the floor.  The janitors were never called in.

    The waiting room was a lonely off-white, with one door on opposite walls.  She sat down and pulled a tattered mess of paper from her boot, a solitary tear appearing on her face.