I never intended to be a solo. Funny how things develop a willpower of their own. I joined the marines in '58, figured it'd be a wise idea to get out of town after I killed my uncle. Asshole. He was driving my mother home one night, drunk, wrapped his shit-green car around the central support of a highway bridge. He lived. Till I got to him.
The marines weren't that bad. People tell you what to do, you do it. No thought involved. They especially don't want your to think that guarding the Panama Canal might be hazardous to your health, seeing as how some damnfool terrorists cooked off the first surface nuke in a hundred years there just before I did duty there. That nuclear war scare back in 2150. Glad those bastards got snagged. Corporate wars are okay, but I don't like players in the game who know how to make nukes. That's one of the Registry's toughest jobs, keeping track of plutonium.
I got better and better at the marines the more I was in there. My mates said I was sudden death with most things, but I especially liked my feet. It's so pleasurable to feel bones snapping as the sensory input rushes up your nerves from your foot to your brain. That was one of the reasons I got my first cybernetics, a sensory booster. I started loving the feelings of SA, what the fighter pilot jocks call Situational Awareness. I love to be in the center of a dustup, smelling the fear, seeing it in your opponents' eyes, making a spin kick and still feeling your man behind you as your eyes take in the rest of hte scene and the world rotates and then SMACK! The sound/smell/feel/look of a crushed ribcage. Combat is what I thrived on as a jarhead. It's the ultimate human pastime, played for the highest stakes, better than any drug to feel the winning adrenaline at full force.
Got my ass captured in the marines, doing covert missions in Africa. Spent a year in a camp training some damn Botswani army people or someone like that. Doesn't seem that important now. Tyrell got wind of me after an African team I'd trained gave them hell trying to steal some tech stuff from them. They tortured the team leader pretty good--a real bastard, I remember training him--and found out about me. Next thing I know, an unmarked AV-6 is landing in the compound, and I'm killing the bastard I was teaching savate to a half minute before and moving like hell to get on board. I'd heard of corps doing crazy extractions before, but this was something new. Figured having my soul sold to Tyrell was better than Botswana.
Corporate life wasn't bad. They put in some sexy hardware for me, a neural booster and an artificial eye and ears, and sent me on some hairy missions. Third one I got my face damn near blown off by a shotgun. We were making a spoiling raid on Arasaka, didn't know quite what they were going to do but knew they were going to do it to us since some netrunner got a twitch, and we crashed into a house outside SF, me the first in, through the biggest motherfucking plate glass window you ever saw, figured it'd deafen anyone inside when it broke. Except it didn't. I bounced, cursed, shot it twice, and got in when there was a flash and I couldn't see. Felt three others in the room with me, all black hats, one running away, don't worry about him, and two unloading in my direction. Kicked the bastard with the autoshotgun--the most satisfying feeling I've ever had--and my mates nailed the other. The running man didn't even make it out the door. Some corporate slimeball. Still don't know what they were going to do to Tyrell. The last of our team through the door was a cowardly bitch named Token, I couldn't curse her enough. She was shaking with rage and hate by the time we got back, but didn't do a damn thing. Like I said, a coward.
After that Charlie-Fox, they fixed my eyes back to 20/10 and sent me off to keep track of a team that was looking for some replicants in Altara. This was in '68. I still had that damn autoshotgun off the little bastard whose neck I'd broken. That was my first solo for Tyrell, and it was the hairiest yet. Dusted one replicant that time, saw two more go down. Plus a damn android who couldn't stay down. Ditched the fucking shotgun after that, figured it was bad luck since I damn near died both times it was around. Made some good enemies when I was there, the whole damn underground. Seems I wasted one of their weapon outlets while the boss' nephew was on duty or something. Petty bastards.
I got tired of working for Tyrell after a few jobs. I'd paid off my debts for them getting me out of the dark continent, and figured it was time to go freelance. I took the liberty of relieving my ex-boss of a briefcase full of cash while I was ait it. He was embezzling so I figured I might as well, too, since I was leaving. He'll try to kil me if he ever sees me, but he can't say a word since I've got some pretty shit on him. Plus I've got some damn good friends, the DA and Mayor of SF, plus the Street Dealin's, as I call them. The DA and Mayor have hired me before, since they know I'm good and I can keep my damn mouth shut. Tyrell's hired me, too, since bossy boy doesn't dare speak up. It must kill him when he has to send me my checks.
The Dealin's I just hang with, a fun bunch of people. They don't even know I've got the DA and Mayor in my pocket, those two are my trump cards. I don't figure they'll try to off me, it'd make more noise than it'd quiet, especially coming from those high offices. But I keep my eyes peeled. That's my middle name.
--Napoleon Solo, 2170