Some people say that I'm a Furian, which is some kind of dead race. As far as I can figure it, though, I'm just a criminal with a shine job who got on the wrong side of too many domestic disputes. Mercs would love to hunt my ass down- they've been trying for years, ever since the incident with the cop on Seoul Prime. Every time I hear that my price has gone up I smile, thinking that another crew of half-assed, half-wit, skittish motherfuckin' mercs is about to crash land whatever life I've pieced together in whatever shithole I happen to be in. Usually I can take care of them, put them out of their misery and out of my way. Sometimes, though, I get caught. That just means another interstellar ion wave trip, another puny-ass prison, another round of "torture" and "adjustment therapy" (their code for more torture) and another score of guards dead or maimed before I get out. I always get out. Longest time I ever stayed in the clink was 2 years. That was back in the days of solitary in a noday center, with 24 hours of straight darkness in a cell the size of a latrine. That was also back when I had only a few notches on my belt, so to speak, before I had learned that there wasn't any good in trying to play the rules by their game. The game was worthless. All you do is fight for something, get arrested, and get sent to some maximum security pen with sub-par guards who think lightin' cigarettes on your ass is fun times on a Saturday night. Well, I got out of there, and though I've been back a few times it's never been for too long. The owners of the prison sold it to a Russian outfit, and since then security has been lax. It's like my own personal ClubFed. Check in, check out, no questions asked. If they do ask questions, they just die. Sometimes they just die anyway.

Sometimes I wonder, what's the point?