I hate my job.

No one hires veterans from the spaceport war.

We lost, I get it but for the love of hardlight, don't blame the guy who ran with the volunteers. Blame the idiots in charge of resourcing and shipping, and paying the volunteers.

Magnificent bastards did more to negotiate our terms and legal rights by pulling the entire war to a stalemate for months and years at a time. All I could do was run from point A to point B to plug in a usb to the local closed circuit.

I guess I get it, I can move and shoot good but only know to plug stick in hole on the change that hole and stick both match and has some signifier which way round it's supposed to go.

That doesn't mean I want to get payed to sit in an armored box and be told 'its classified' for everything.

Were are we, classified. What time is it, classified. What am I wearing, classified. Everything. All I know is I have a Pulsar pistol, light armor, fairly breathable clothes and a life jacket that doubles as chest armor. So, secret facility set in a damn or water treatment center and energy on energy warfare.

Meaning rebels out in the styx developing something or inner city sewers and runoff passages. Rebels could be plausible but not likely due to the one freelancer who singlehandedly turned farmers into legal powerhouses. People don't stand up and fight when they've got a good lot, meaning this was more than likely some cooperate skullduggery and I'd be shooting my coworkers when I die.

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And the closest answer I got was "Classified"

In the troop transport (I assume) me and a squad mate had our legs tangled together and I was playing finger skateboard on his poofy pants. I only really got along with that guy, didn't know 'im well but everyone else was bloodthirsty tubers. We talked on occasion but I just fobbed a flipkick onto everyone else's packs we were using as beanbags.

I was fumbling for that tiny lil board when the buzzer went off and the lights changed to yellow. Spez jolted awake and nearly fell over trying to scramble up, almost nailed my junk too. Everyone sat up to look at what the projector was showing on the rear hatch (I again assume) and we got one homeless looking dude with like four backpacks under his ratty ass raincoat sliding down the side wall on a piece of lumber. The horror.

Everyone else was slobbering over the prospect of getting to kill something while me and Spez questioned our life choices. Then someone up top looked to be following them from the street. homeless sledding not a big deal, guy with long stick on back big deal, right?

Nope, kill the sledder, leave the urban game hunter to his wandering. Why?

Pants. I kid you not. having pockets is a sin, visible, useful pockets on visually interesting clothes moreover. Cargo pants had a squad of killers foaming at the mouth as the dude walked into the tunnel and took the third side passage to the left. At least he had a 6th sense cause he pulled out some ratchets and toe cables to make a car fort.

All the hallmarks of anti energy warfare, homeless tunnel survival, adult having urge to pillow fort and wandering into a decently cool tunnel.

I amend my initial statement; I hate everyone here.