Bionic

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"So you could call me the Six Million Dollar Woman," Lena quipped airily. The group erupted into cool laughter, and then drifted to the next topic of discussion. After a few more minutes, Lena excused herself -- some comment on how she really must see how everyone else was getting on, which was accepted easily enough -- and made her way back to the kitchen, exchanging insincere pleasantries with a few people as she went.

She let out a deep breath as soon as the kitchen door had closed behind her; none of the guests had seen fit to come in here, not when the caterers had such a nice spread out in the dining room. Of course, her aunt hadn't even looked at the catered food, and was currently cooking up a pot of something for her own lunch. Sudden wealth could change just about anyone in the world, probably, but it certainly could not change Aunt Margaret.

The older woman eyed Lena over the top of her glasses. "Tired of your new friends already, then?" Her voice was not unkind, but still her disapproval was evident.

Lena sighed. It was not the money that Aunt Margaret had a problem with, exactly. It was more the way that the money had led to this new house -- mansion, really, once the room count hit the double digits with no sign of stopping then it was time to upgrade the terminology -- this new mansion, and how it had seemingly come with a host of new "friends" already in place, like easily-bored furniture with a wicked taste for gossip. Lena had worked a bottom-of-the-totem-pole job with a major fashion magazine for years, and gotten nowhere with it. Since the settlement for her accident, though, it suddenly seemed that well-dressed people were coming from miles around just to drop by and hear her expert opinion on just what phrase was going to be the new "the new black".

None of them actually cared about her in the slightest, of course. But it was nice to pretend, at least for a few minutes before all the artificial smiles started getting to her.

"No," she said finally, answering her aunt's question. "Just tired in general." She sat heavily in one of the kitchen chairs, wincing as she did so. "It's hard to feel like the Six Million Dollar Woman when all my valuable bionic joints are so damned stiff."

Aunt Margaret turned back to her cooking. "Well, don't tell those bloodsucking corporate laywers that," she answered briskly. "They'd probably say that if you don't consider it enough compensation, then you might as well not have it at all."