Callsign: Celtic/Hyena/Moth/Heretic/???

She's told me to stop. One of them. She said I was staring into the screen without blinking and she told me to wrap it up, and get to bed.

There's a sick care here. I can't tell you all what goes on here but...I feel better. Like this.

I find myself running jobs not for my own needs but for their approval. For the comfort of knowing someone is proud of me, it's sick. I'm sick.

I should've gone to therapy, shouldn't I? Or I...I should've ended it then and there. I could've went home and did it. Why didn't I

They call me a dog. And I thank them for it.

This shouldn't be relieving. I should be scared, I know I should be, I can feel the fear in the back of my mind but something is blocking it and I don't understand what.

I don't understand a lot of things anymore.

...I met some...friends. They don't pilot. Well, one of them did, for a time, but retired. The other, run logistics.

They've both taken a special interest in me, combined. And for the first time since the city was turned to glass, I feel alive. I feel...relief, in their presence.

I eat well. I sit at the table with top mercs at less-than-fancy parties.

Usually there's sex. We get rough. I like it rough.

But a full stomach, it feels disgusting to me. Painful.

A sated sex drive leaves me empty. I need the driving factor, not the release.

now what

the more normal mercs, they give me the same strange look i used to give the "hounds" and "handlers" when i first started paying attention to them. cant say i give enough of a shit.

but there's a decent mix of pity and respect in there as well. i did it. i made it to the top.

but the few that seem to have the ability to form sentences, theyre *happy*, being what they are.

they live without fear and, they fight for something. their uh, "handlers" usually shut them up at this point.

more often than not, i pay for a round of drinks on the way out.

im thinking about the dogs again.

i think i envy them. they dont think, they dont worry about the day to day, they just, are.

they go and they kill, or they get killed.

i...i spent some time, just, talking to them. theyre out of it, a lot of the time.

got an update on what happened to boss. or should i say, B-Rank, Callsign Frogboy. The fuck kinda name is frog boy

turns out he went down with the city, figures. they only found him via tracking his path

yknow whats fucked, i think we went to school together, when i was still in school that is

Auto-gen description by merc-net synthetic intelligence. Pilot Designation Celtic/Heretic/Moth/Hyena. S-Class freelance mercenary. Pilot marked by [SYSTEM EXPUNGED]. Picture taken within Putrescere, Nuevo Imperialis capital city. Location: unknown. Bathroom. Pilot pictured wearing Hawk Collective (defunct mercenary outfit, last date of operation: system error.) field dress shirt. Glasses: prescription. Generic sweatshorts. Pilot appears disheveled. Shirtless underneath dress shirt. Nails: painted. Expression: Vacant. Eyes: Vacant. Hair: Unkempt, but clean. Traces of black dye remain amongst natural browns. No further descriptors applicable.

planetside. walking the streets trying to even remotely pretend i'm a normal person.

my head is aching. my eyes are burning. there's the taste of bile in the back of my throat, and all i can feel is the urge to get back to 05 and get back to work.

how many have i passed, that know im a monster

my head feels like its burning. i cant stop thinking. i want to stop thinking why wont it stop

I've spent a lot of time on the job, lately. I've barely been eating. Just active combat stims, military rations, and water every few days to get rid of the gnawing pain in my stomach.

They're calling me one of the best in the field now.

My hands are light lightning over a keyboard. He reads all of these as they come out, he sees me, he knows me, he's scared of me and he could easily crumple me to dust out here. but in there.

in there. i need to go back. i dont feel correct out here. 05. i need 05.

i fumbled for the shards, wanted to go for my throat. they stopped me. they locked me in the closet. there's a bed here. another mercenary watches. Callsign Pigeon. S Rank. War vet turned gun for hire. He sees me typing away at this device. He's here to stop me from trying again.

Sensation. The stinging of my knuckles. It's too much.

In the bar, I scream. I scream it all out, everyone stares, surprised, but, they know.

Gods, they know. I scream until I'm hoarse, until I can no longer speak.

I tried to end it, then and there. I grabbed a glass, i shattered it

They all still call me Celtic. They follow me. They hate me. They love me. They hunt me.

I'm not. I'm not wise enough for this melodramatic bullshit. I need to ground myself, I need to move on I need to forget

I can't forget. I refuse to forget. Help me.

I remind them I'm not. A swift punch to the stomach, or the jaw. I even see a spark of pain in the handlers as I pass now.

Time has lost all meaning.

I don't know how long it's been since the destruction of New Cataract. Can't have been more than a month. No, a week. No. 2 days.

Heard one of the twins from the last job joined the war effort. The guy in charge of the op, killed himself last night.

Hounds stare at me. They move out of the way now. Or they. If permitted. Try to go in for a hug. A touch. Anything they believe they can do. They see me as one of them.

Haven't shaved in days. Or showered. Or changed.
To some I'm the most beautiful thing they've ever seen. To others, a warm body.

I don't see anything in the mirror anymore. Nothing but an empty husk. I feel nothing from sex. No warmth. No release.

Other mercs stare me down. With pity. With hate.

i can barely move.

i cant fix this i cant redeem this i i dont know what to od what do i do WHAT DO I DO

i didnt push the button but im the reason it happened. im the reason it happened. im the reason it happened.

im the reason it happened.

i hated my family, i hated that city. but i never wanted this

what have i done

just got a call from the merc union reps. neither government can touch me on this due to our contract and clauses.

i dont care what they do

i dont
i

i cant do this

Reports are saying the destruction was the result of a dirty bomb created utilizing...no. nononoonoonononooooonono

Utilizing a generator recently stolen from an advanced research facility on the planet i'm currently orbiting. where i just wrapped up my last...my last job.

It means that everything I knew, everyone I knew, before I became a merc, it's...it's all gone.

I can barely feel anything right now but, I can feel a muted burning in my throat. The meds kicked in about 20 minutes before I heard the news.

I'm...originally from New Cataract. It was a sovereign nation on a fringe world that got lucky with an excess in natural resources that were being exported to the guys ive been working for for a while.

What this means is that any records of who I am, where I come from, are entirely gone.