Journal Entry # 1 for whateverthefuck day it is
We go through staff psychiatrists a lot, around here. Sometimes they last as long as a year before turning in a report that basically describes us all as suicidal psychopaths. And the tests...God, the tests. Color charts and Rorschach inkblot tests and polygraph tests and counseling sessions where you find out that you actually hated your mother. Which you didn't. Until they tell you that you did.
This year's version is Dr. Cooke. Dr. Cooke was educated at the University of Michigan, apparently in "new age bullshit." Dr. Cooke believes I should keep a journal so that I can "capture my feelings as they occur." Here's a feeling then – I feel like a right prat.
Fuck.
Fine then. I'm called Pete Wisdom. You note I said, "called." It's not my real name, but in my line of work real names are a hindrance. What I am is a cleaner. An assassin's assassin. Not the spotless antihero of the James Bond flicks. I'm who gets sent in when the job goes tits-up, and people have to disappear. At least, that's what I was trained to be before I got sent here.
"Here" is a very fashionable office complex in the heart of London, where the organization I work for is located. I'd tell you who they were, if they had a name. But they don't. My mates and I call them "Code Black," just so we have something to refer to them by. It's the place where, if you're working in an espionage shop for a NATO treaty country, you get sent when you've cocked things up so badly that you're a liability anywhere but on suicide missions; you've really pissed off some important, paper-pushing accountant who calls himself an "agency director;" you're so fucking good at what you do that local missions start getting boring, and you start international incidents just for fun; or all three. I'll let you guess which one I am.
Anyway, I work with three other nutjobs – Marlena Braddock, Andrea Smith, and Jason Carlossi. No, of course those aren't their real names. Marlena handles tech; Jason has a bigger death wish than I do, as proven by the times he's free-jumped from shit no taller than my stereo cabinet; and Andrea, given that she's actually got some diplomatic skills, is our face. My job on the team is to make sure everyone gets in and gets out alright. Occasionally that means I have to kill a lot of people on our way in or out of a tight spot.
I think it's the fact that I'm fine with that. Dr. Cooke seemed a little put off when he asked me what I usually did after a mission of that kind, and I replied, "sleep like a baby." I give him three more months. Two, if he actually reads these entries.
I guess in the next couple of days, I'll tell you about our last movie night. Andrea seems to think it shows a lighter side of the team. I think it constitutes evidence admissible in a court of law, but what do I know?
Pleasant dreams, Doc.
This year's version is Dr. Cooke. Dr. Cooke was educated at the University of Michigan, apparently in "new age bullshit." Dr. Cooke believes I should keep a journal so that I can "capture my feelings as they occur." Here's a feeling then – I feel like a right prat.
Fuck.
Fine then. I'm called Pete Wisdom. You note I said, "called." It's not my real name, but in my line of work real names are a hindrance. What I am is a cleaner. An assassin's assassin. Not the spotless antihero of the James Bond flicks. I'm who gets sent in when the job goes tits-up, and people have to disappear. At least, that's what I was trained to be before I got sent here.
"Here" is a very fashionable office complex in the heart of London, where the organization I work for is located. I'd tell you who they were, if they had a name. But they don't. My mates and I call them "Code Black," just so we have something to refer to them by. It's the place where, if you're working in an espionage shop for a NATO treaty country, you get sent when you've cocked things up so badly that you're a liability anywhere but on suicide missions; you've really pissed off some important, paper-pushing accountant who calls himself an "agency director;" you're so fucking good at what you do that local missions start getting boring, and you start international incidents just for fun; or all three. I'll let you guess which one I am.
Anyway, I work with three other nutjobs – Marlena Braddock, Andrea Smith, and Jason Carlossi. No, of course those aren't their real names. Marlena handles tech; Jason has a bigger death wish than I do, as proven by the times he's free-jumped from shit no taller than my stereo cabinet; and Andrea, given that she's actually got some diplomatic skills, is our face. My job on the team is to make sure everyone gets in and gets out alright. Occasionally that means I have to kill a lot of people on our way in or out of a tight spot.
I think it's the fact that I'm fine with that. Dr. Cooke seemed a little put off when he asked me what I usually did after a mission of that kind, and I replied, "sleep like a baby." I give him three more months. Two, if he actually reads these entries.
I guess in the next couple of days, I'll tell you about our last movie night. Andrea seems to think it shows a lighter side of the team. I think it constitutes evidence admissible in a court of law, but what do I know?
Pleasant dreams, Doc.
