You are Agent Connecticut, member of Project Freelancer.

They call you Connie.

You're a super, bad-ass space warrior with awesome friends.

You're a traitor.

You work for Charon.

He calls you Connie. You only let him.

Washington and Carolina and Tex and North and South, none of them are allowed to call you Connie. It's C.T. It's less personal.

It hurts less.

You are Agent Connecticut.

You love them.

You love him.

You work for Charon. You're a traitor to Project Freelancer and your friends.

They're going to kill you one day.

One day your friends are going to chase you down with guns and knives for something you're going to do and there's nothing you can do to stop it, you can only prepare and be ready.

You cut off connections, you let the space grow so maybe, just maybe, it'll hurt less. They'll be less willing to save you, more capable of killing you because you do not want to be saved. You only want to run away.

Maybe they'll be merciful and make the choice for you, catch you before you leave and end your life then and there. That might just be easier, but it wouldn't be right, would it?

Can you really be blamed for innocent lives if you're already dead for trying to save them?

You'd like to think so, but guilt that eats away at your guts tells you that you have to live for them and get out of here.

Out of Freelancer.

You don't get to be a bad-ass space warrior any more.

You're just a traitor now.

Just Connie.

Not Agent Connecticut.

You're gone.

You don't exist so much now.

You don't know who or what you are, all you know is that you're trying to do something right, something good.

You feel as though you have something that you need to atone for.

Maybe there's blood on your hands, hidden beneath those leather gloves you use to strangle and murder.

Maybe you're bathing in the blood of your friends.

Maybe you're drowning in it.

You don't know what's what any more, only that you have to act and react and just keep stepping on, trying to do the right thing.

You've lost who you are in this endless grey mass of morality, but you're trying to find the shell of it.

You know it's in there somewhere.

You know you're in there somewhere, all too ready to die for the sake of trying to be good.

No one will listen to you.

No one understands what it is you're doing. What you've done.

No one gets what it is you're sacrificing when you snap and tell them to call you C.T

They think you're bitter about Connie, because she's young and childish and innocent.

Maybe they're right. Maybe she is innocent.

You, Agent Connecticut, are not.

You can never be innocent again and maybe that's okay. Maybe that's a good thing.

They don't understand that you're no longer a person. You stopped being one the moment you chose to be good over being with them.

It ripped away everything good about you, as payment.

You're just C.T. You're not a person.

But you're trying so hard to be. You want to be a good person, not just good.

You want to be there to comfort them when you leave. To say that you never meant to hurt them, but it's for the best that you did it as you did.

The slow drifting and sharp, bitter words, the snapping and sneaking were a better build up because it gave them a reason to believe that you could do this.

Good people don't just leave like you did.

You are Agent Connecticut and you are fighting for your life.

You're fighting Agents Carolina and Texas.

They were your friends once.

You loved them once and they loved you back because you were all part of one big family of super, bad ass space warriors who fought the good fight. Or so you all believed.

Now things are different.

They're trying to capture you alive and you know that can't happen.

Texas is fighting you the hardest. She's looking to kill, as though there's not a choice in the matter.

You are Agent Connecticut and you are about to die.

It hurts. It hurts like a fucking bitch and it doesn't matter.

You're about to die because you made a mistake and tried to do some good.

Somewhere along the way it all got a little too muddled up and you turned into a traitor without a second thought and that landed you here, with an axe in your chest and fumbling hands pressing a data chip into someone who chokes on the very name you murdered.

Agent Texas has just killed you.

She made you hurt like this, and now you can't breathe, the world is fading, but as it does, everything is so damn vivid and sharp that you think it can't be right.

You're not dying.

You are.

You are Agent Connecticut

You are a traitor.

You were loved.

You are loved.

You are dead.