Sit down. I get a pain in the neck looking up at people and believe me, you're a big enough pain in the ass as it is. Why the questions? You know my story. Everyone does. It made the clip shows back in the day. Tyler was killed, my child. Someone murdered her after they... they... and my wife left. She couldn't deal with it all. Blamed me for it all, just like you police did. Always look to the family first, don't you. Fat lot of good you were. The killer is still out there and I have nothing. The accident that killed my work mates. I got the blame for that too. Guilt is a dull knife that goes in slowly and churns in your guts. I know the court's said it wasn't my fault, but everyone still blames me. No one more than myself. My military record? Why do you want to... oh. The suit. Not many of us made it through the training. Not because it was physically tough, it is but no more than other branches of the service. Most dropped out as soon as the OxyQuid filled their lungs. The drowning reflex takes over. Panic and fear. I hate it as much as the next guy, the one throwing up on the floor, but I don't like giving up. I was trained to use the suit, to sneak up on enemy bases or subs, plant explosives or something, and get away without being heard. A good skill in war, bloody useless in peace time. So now I make a living from the suit, deep welding on cities and subs. Going into areas where a full suit or a sub can't reach. Doing the jobs that are too dangerous for others. One day, the job will kill me. My money's on liver failure beating it to the punch. Want another drink? You're buying.
