This is Kolyat,
We haven't spoken for a while, you and I. For the best. I'm here alone again, drinking. I took a shotshell to the front plate, and I can't keep down any solid food.
The alcohol is good for the pain. Keeps me going. Dulls my aim but hardens my stride and fists.
My father used to say that only the weak did not fight with a belly full of vodka. I am not weak Father.
But I am not strong.
I've been doing mercenary work, for many factions in the block. With the absence of Maint officers, it becomes harder to apply my primary trade.
Diving is difficult on its own, without someone to reliably sell maps to.
I must eat, after all. I am not strong enough to forgo food for personal achievement.
I sell myself, these hands and my training to those who can afford me.
I fight for, and against the Slavs. I fight for and against the Prisoners.
The whores.
The bloc lords.
The Undermen.
The Rich.
The Poor.
The cult.
I am no hero. I am just a man. I make mistakes. I fail contracts.
I kill when I do not need to out of rage, and fail to kill out of mercy.
There was, a woman, she worked behind the counter in my favourite stroganoff store. Beautiful. Hips that swung with every step. A sweet smile.
Even her scars, across her face; mauled as a child by a Snatcher.
She was gorgeous.
I'm not one to get caught up on women. If I need a fuck, I pay a whore and get it done with or find someone drunk enough at the bar to sleep with Kolyat the Diver.
But Natalya.
I lament her loss. Not for not having fucked her. But because she was so beautiful, and we had spent a lot of time talking over the Kvass and Stroganoff. The company was so pleasant, I forgot I was eating the canned meat.
I went to the Restaurant. Found her behind the counter. The stoves were all on, but no food was being served.
I did not see her father.
I did not see any customers.
I asked her, what was wrong and she assured me Nothing was wrong.
But there was no smile. Natalya smiles. So I ask again.