barely fatal

My name is Commander Killian Shepard. You might remember me from when I shot at you or kicked you in the face. I wasn’t always that hard. At first, everybody played real nice, so did I. They sent me on missions, told me stories of their woes and begged me for help. They are all liars, back-stabbing bastards. The universe is full of mad scientists cutting up people, playing with weapons of mass destruction. Full of mercs, waiting to shoot you in the back. Full of greedy corporations with dirty little secrets. Full of power-hungry “politicians” who don’t give a crap about their people, only trying to protect their own asses.

I stopped being nice. Now I shoot first, ask questions later. Blast them away with my shotgun before they can harm me or my crew. Use my biotoc powers to lift them up and crush them under my heels. Bodies to my left and to my right, humans, aliens, synthetics, it makes no difference anymore.

My loyal crew of five. They never question my orders, because they know we do the right thing. Somewhat tells me I’m yet supposed to find another crew member. But then again, maybe I already met her. And shot her. Or fed her to her own monster, virus, or plant. Nobody lies to me anymore. I get the information. I finish the mission. Like it or not.

They call me a renegade. I’m a realist.