Fighting My Demons
Kill…that's all I've known for most of my life. Kill or…uh…kill. I can't die by normal means (being shot, poisoned, burned, etc.) I'm also not allowed to die by orders of my creator, the Director of the infamous SystemCorps. I don't have a life. No job, no soul…he he, not even a fucking name. The white-coats in the lab decided to call me Angel because "it sounds cool and it's ironic," as one of them put it. Fucking nerds…
Anyway, I am a genetically altered organism created my SystemCorps to be the "perfect" soldier. I've been poked and prodded with so many drugs and enzymes, I swear this is actually all in my head and I'm just hallucinating. I wish that was true…
If you (the reader) are wondering what I look like, then here's a basic description: I wear a black hoodie with a red cross on the back. I have black and red combat boots. My eyes are red and my skin is greyish-looking. It's not much, but it's supposed to look intimidating.
So, now you know my background, so let me tell you how I escaped and my life after that (for all of those with weak stomachs, I would stop reading). For ten years I trained, killing politicians, warlords, generals, armies, anything the Director could think of to try and catch me off guard.
