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.

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.

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.

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.

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