January 1st, 2526:
Avery Johnson woke up on the floor, reeking of Harvest corn whiskey and vomit. Blinking away a painful but familiar head ache, he belly-crawled into the bathroom and threw up in the toilet. Once his body expelled most of last night's liquor he felt capable of standing. He avoided the mirror as he shuffled out of the small bathroom; he didn't need to see it to know he looked terrible.
A heavy sigh escaped his lips as he sat on the edge of his bed. As he predicted when he had been shipped here, there were no Innies on Harvest. The only enemy he had on-world was Byrne, and he was one Johnson couldn't kill. Not unless he wanted to end up in front of a firing squad. But then, maybe he did. It might just beat being stuck out here, training idiot farm boys and catching cold glares from Byrne. Why couldn't they have just left him in Chicago? He could have drunk himself into oblivion. Instead that bitch al-Cygni had dragged him out of the hole in the wall he'd been hoping to die in and all the way out here, to the middle of nowhere, so he could stop some Innie raiders from robbing grain transports.
That was nearly a year ago. After Johnson and Byrne repelled a raider and killed its crew, the system fell back into silence. Freighters came and went, JOTUN machines worked the land, grain rode up the elevator and off to hundreds of hungry worlds. He and Byrne were tasked with raising a militia to fight the non-existent Innie threat. It was a bullshit posting, meant to get him out of the way. After what happened on Tribute, the brass wasn't going to send him anywhere near the front lines.
It was just as well. He had no fight in him anymore. He barely had any life in him anymore. Mostly he was full of cheap food and cheaper booze. It didn't make him happy, but it helped him forget. That was good enough.
Johnson dressed slowly, like a man in pain. There was no real point in showing up to the day's training; he wasn't fit to walk a dog, let alone train soldiers. Still, he needed to show his face if he wanted to draw his paycheck. Might as well half-ass some paperwork before going back to the bar. He reached for his sidearm, which sat on his bedside table next to a nearly-finished bottle of Harvest Gold. For a brief moment he imagined holding the gun to his head and squeezing. The thought passed so quickly he could almost kid himself that it hadn't existed at all.
"Happy fucking New Year", croaked Johnson to the empty room. He polished off the whiskey and stumbled out the door.