Uniform
He was neither a bright nor moral individual. He had spent his adolescent years as a juvenile delinquent, and after several cycles of felonies and stints in detention he had been caught on his nineteenth birthday trying to steal a car from a busy downtown street in broad daylight. They had thrown him in a real jail for that one, and not some introductory prison either. It was hard time, and he had been looking at fifteen years of it.
At the first parole hearing, six years into his sentence, they had offered him an out if he would join the military. He had gladly taken it, and two months later was on a transport plane bound for a country he would never have seen any other way. There he would legally murder dozens of people, and a few illegally. Then the war had ended, and he had been sent home.
As expected, there had not been any real work waiting for him. That had not mattered much, as he had spent the previous eight years and most of the ones before those learning how to do things that went outside the purview of gainful employment. He had spent another few years as a felon, albeit a smarter one— one who would not get caught—before walking into an ambush set up by one of the many enemies he had managed to make. His entire crew had died around him, and although they had wiped out the attackers, he had known it would not be long before someone would come along to finish him off. So, he had faked his death by a killing similarly sized bystander and swapping clothes and identification. Then he had disappeared.
It was not until 2008 that he managed to re-establish himself. A new country, an entirely new identity, and a new job. He had become a member of the local police force in a small, sleepy town where no one asked too many questions.
For all we know he is still there, enforcing the law when once all he had known was how to break it.
First draft: 140915
Published: 230511