"Who are you?" The electric fans buzzed, struggling to propel the humid summer air out of the plascrete shrine.  At this time of night, the legitimate visitors to the monastery had left, leaving only those with business to address.

"No one."  The man moved slowly, mechanically.  The arc lighter wobbled unsteadily as he lit the paraffin incense stick perched on the altar.  His hair, long enough to sweep back, had gone lanky in the muggy air.  The recycled plastic hoodie and jeans.  Sneakers without socks.  An old-model datajack with the connecting circuitry clearly visible as it worked its way from his neck to his cranium.  Dull grey eyes gazing unsteadily out over his cane.

"Why are you here?" The abbot watched as the young(?) man clapped his hands twice, closing his eyes.  She thumbed through her mala once, twice, waiting for a response.  The pair of Octagons who had dropped him off had already vanished back into their sedan.

"I just am."  His voice was expressionless, his eyes closed.

"And what do you know?"

"The sword.  The breath, the essence, the spirit."  The air around him grew cold, and his hands trembled.  

"Then what are you going to do?" The candle guttered briefly as the rotating fan blew over it, but stayed lit.

The pause was longer before he opened his eyes.  "I will go where the people are sick, and where they are hungry.  Where they are alone, and where they are afraid."  

The abbot bit her lip, resisting the urge to view him on the Astral.  Eventually, she sighed, rubbing her scalp.  "Amitabha, Daoist.  Then your home shall be the whole, wide world.  For sleep, however, I have allocated you a chamber in the west wing.  The Grid subscription password is 'nanchang'."