Being behind bars does little to keep a man like you from wielding his power. During the long days spent rotting in your cell you took comfort in the knowledge that your secret research and development team were hard at work perfecting your key to eternal life - the genetic transplant chamber.
A single cell from another person is all you need to have the chamber reshape your body into a pristine copy of theirs. Of course, the brain would be quite severely affected by such a transformation, so the chamber also includes a system to record your mental state and write it as accurately as possible into the altered brain once the treatment is complete. All in all it's a highly elaborate and absurdly expensive process; it'll cost you a sizeable chunk of your fortune to pull it off. But once you do, you'll have plenty of time to make that money back.
And you know the chamber works - immediately after your release from prison you performed a relatively cheap test run by having one of your less wise underlings changed into a squirrel. Of course, you couldn't fit very much of his mind into that tiny brain, but a squirrel doesn't need human intelligence anyway. Nor does it need the hundred million credits it was promised.
It's been five days since then, and your preparations are complete. The chamber is set up to give you the body of a healthy young man who recently met an unfortunate fate. But you have reservations about using it now - not only are you unsure it's safe, but you'll be in there a while. The squirrel took a day and a half, and an adult human body will surely take quite a bit longer - certainly long enough for your enemies to take advantage. Plus, your new identity has yet to be created; if you go in now you'll have to trust your agents to forge it while you're out.
But this frail old body of yours could drop dead any day now, of natural causes or otherwise. Like hell are you going to miss your shot at immortality because you were too scared to take it.
So here you are in the laboratory beneath your mansion, standing naked before the glass doors to the genetic transplant chamber. The slow movement of your decrepit legs gives you plenty of time for second thoughts, but you fight off your doubts and get yourself into position. As the doors slide shut, the neural reader latches onto your bald, wrinkled head. A cold, thick, clear liquid begins to fill the chamber. The tension in your mind builds until the liquid reaches your chest and you pass out.
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