In the shower I whistled away my disquiet tunelessly and ran soap and hands over the new body. My sleeve was in his early forties, Protectorate standard, with a swimmer's build and what felt like some military custom carved onto his nervous system. Neurachemical upgrade, most likely. I'd had it myself, once. There was a tightness in the lungs that suggested a nicotine habit and some gorgeous scarring on the forearm, but apart from that I couldn't find anything worth complaining about. The little twinges and snags catch up with you later on and if you're wise, you just live with them. Every sleeve has a history. If that kind of thing bothers you, you line up over at Syntheta's or Fabrikon. I've worn my fair share of synthetic sleeves; they use them for parole hearings quite often. Cheap, but it's too much like living alone in a draughty house, and they never seem to get the flavour circuits right. Everything you eat ends up tasting like curried sawdust.