He led you through the dilapidated bunker complex, stopping at a nondescript rusted door, "Here we are, my friend," he said in his Neo-Afrikaner accent, pushing the door open with typical flourish.

The room was dominated by a bank of machinery on the far wall, a control panel covered in knobs and levers with a small monitor atop it, curved and bulbous like an ancient television. And, along the wall, was a girl, restrained to a table by iron bands. She lay there, docile in contrast to her condition and surroundings, even smiling at you.

Your guide laughed as he lay eyes on her, slapping the table firmly which roused no response from her. "Beauty, ain't she?" He shifted his attention to the console, gesturing broadly with his arm, "As advertised. It's OldGov tech. Ingenious bastards used it to torture or re-educate political types. Hell if I know what actually makes it tick, but you can play with the knobs and the results speak for themselves. First thing we did was clean the goose up for you and make 'er think she came here nice and willingly." He flicked a dip switch and the screen slowly came awake, displaying a hazy image of what looked like the same woman, but years younger. "Resolution of the vidfeed is complete shit, but you can dial it in down to just about any point in her life. Her personal timeline is your plaything and you, my friend, paid hard currency. So, I'll step out and keep the meter running. Try not to have too much fun, eh?"