It’s been a long day, sitting at the Union drinking my soy-whiskey, looking at my beat up and scabbed knuckles while holding the cheap plastic glass, wondering how I got here. It was only a few years back I was on an elite SAS team, doing black ops to make the world a safer place, now I am halfway across the world and can’t even hold down a job at the Seattle docks hauling cargo around. At least this last job lasted me a few months. Even made a good friend over there, Don, to bad he couldn’t do anything about saving my fate there. I sealed that myself when I blacked out one night and came too with two on my co-workers beaten senseless and blood all over my fists. I keep telling myself they must have done something to deserve being beaten within an inch of their lives. I have to believe that. I am not a monster.
That was last week and this is this week. I got 416 Nuyen to my name and some flea ridden rat trap apartment around the corner I was smart enough to pre-pay for a few months. I need money. I got a kid, a daughter, If I am lucky I get to spend an hour with her every few weeks, her Mom hates me, I don’t blame her, she had no idea what she was marrying when she married an SAS solider. She had no idea just how fragile the human mind could be and how much I would change when the service augmented my body slowly seperating my soul from this worldly flesh. Some Ops went bad too and when the PTSD hit me like a freight train, she couldn’t handle the nightmares and black outs, and I couldn’t live with myself if something happened to her or little Natasha during one of these episodes. She showed me the door, and I left knowing it was for the best. I don’t deserve a quiet life in a nice gated community with a loving family, not after all the things I have done in the name of my country, not after the things I have seen and more importantly, choose not to see.
I need money, the soy-whiskey must have me repeating myself. I put out some feelers to some people in the hood I know, they hooked me up to some low level fixer, Jen Quick, she can get guys like me, guys with no real skills besides…well you know…some cash, so I can live, so I can see my daughter for another hour in 2 weeks, so I can try to piece my shattered life back together. Then again, guys like me never do get out of tis black hole. But dammit if I don’t try.
I’m on my second Soy-Whis when my commlink chirps. Its Jen. She says she has a job, it pays so I didn’t ask for details, I am in. I am to meet my new team 6pm.
By 7pm I am a new man, I am Viking and I am a Shadowrunner.