Sarge was sick of SWORD. Always on his goddam back. What was the point anyway? The Earth was a basket case, only months away from croakin' for good.
Why keep the soddin Casuals down? And the Rejects? Didn't they deserve to leave this mess? Or at least spend their last few weeks without SWORD on their ass. Unlike those poor bastards, Sarge could split whenever he wanted and he knew it.
The system stinks. Sarge had thought this for a long time and the feeling had grown like an abscess. "Typical elitist rich retards!" growled Sarge as he slammed down his shot glass one more time. The SWORD HQ bar was empty save for a stranger sat in the dark alcove near the back. He glanced up in Sarge's direction.
Sarge rubbed his grizzled face. "Fill me up" he barked at the bartender, who was staring at the stranger rubbing a glass with a bar towel. Sarge couldn't care less who was there. His abscess was growing bigger and needed seriously tending to once and for all. He was beginning to really hate his employer with a vengeance.
He was beginning to hate Project SWORD!
To be continued.......