“Wake up.”

The voice wouldn’t shut up and it was starting to irritate Jackson. He forced himself to pry open his right eyelid and do a quick recon of his immediate surroundings. Spotting a uniformed civilian police officer, Jackson decided to go back to sleep.

“Go away, I’m not hurting anyone or anything,” he muttered, closing his eye and shifting to get more comfortable on his makeshift bed of leaves and foliage.

“Sir, I don’t want any trouble,” the voice informed Jackson. “But local ordinances say no sleeping in public parks.”

“Leave me alone or you’re going to have more trouble than you and five more like you can handle.”

“Sir, I realize you’re down on your luck. I don’t want to arrest you, but I have to do my job. If you don’t move along, I’m going to have to take you in.”

Something in the cop’s tone had changed, alerting Jackson. He opened both eyelids enough for him to scan the officer. The man was reaching for his taser.

“Use that thing on me and you’ll regret it,” Jackson warned.

“Sir, I think it will be the other way around,” the officer replied.

Fully awake and aware of his surroundings now, Jackson sat up and considered his options. He could do as the officer asked, comply, and leave the park. Or, he could have a bit of fun.

“You look young,” Jackson observed. “Wet behind the ears.”

It was the cops turn to be irritated. Jackson watched as the officer’s cheeks flushed a bright red and the muscles in the man’s jaws worked in anger, grinding his teeth. Before the cop could react, Jackson tossed a handful of dirt and leaves at the man’s face, rolling over into a crouch as he did so. In the instant it took for the cop to attempt to deflect the debris Jackson launched himself at the officer.

Jackson drove his right shoulder into the officer’s sternum, knocking the cop over with ease. Allowing his momentum to carry him forward, Jackson fell on top of the officer, knocking the wind out of the man while twisting his own body, rolling to the side. Before the cop could recover from Jackson’s blitz attack, Jackson had the man in a choke hold. As his air supply dwindled, the officer’s struggles grew less and less.

“Now listen,” Jackson ordered in a calm, commanding voice. “I’m going to loosen my grip and let you breath. You wiggle once, and I will choke you out.”

Ever so slightly, Jackson lessened the pressure on the cop’s windpipe. The young cop took two gulping breaths of air, his chest heaving, and promptly started to struggle again.

“Idiot,” Jackson calmly stated, tightening his grip again. This time the officer’s struggles stopped almost immediately.

Using his forearm to maintain pressure on the cop’s windpipe, Jackson tried for a second time to reason with the terrified man. “Don’t be an idiot. I have the complete upper hand. I could choke you out or snap your neck, either one.” Jackson paused to let the threat sink in. “Or, we could have a nice discussion about the stupidity of how you handled your job. It’s totally up to you.”

Slowly, Jackson eased the pressure on the cop’s windpipe, allowing the man to breathe. A minute passed before Jackson spoke again. “First mistake, you didn’t identify the threat. I’m wearing Alliance issue military boots. My jacket is Black Star issue. It should be obvious to you I’m a mercenary.”

Not waiting for the cop to acknowledge his statement, Jackson continued. “Second mistake, you should have approached me with your weapon of choice ready to use. When you went for the taser, you left yourself open to a blitz attack.”

This time the cop grunted in response.

“Third mistake, you should have realized I was sleeping it off and a simple risk assessment would have told you to wake me up, tell me to leave, and then come back in an hour or so.”

Finished with his post-battle assessment, Jackson relinquished his grip and shove the cop away from him. He stood up quickly, looking down at the frightened officer. Jackson shook his head, indicating his disapproval of the officer’s performance and then leaned over and offered the man his hand.

Looking first at the hand and then Jackson’s face, the officer’s eyes reflected his confusion.

“I’m not going to hurt you,” Jackson informed the cop. “You’ve learned your lesson if you’re smart. Think of this as a valuable training exercise, which it is, and don’t make the same mistake again. Next time it could be a knife I throw and not a handful of dirt and leaves.”

Unsure of what to do and desperate to escape the embarrassing situation, the officer finally took Jackson’s hand and allowed the mercenary to help him to his feet.

“Since I’m wide awake now, I’ll be moving along,” Jackson growled at the cop. “If our paths ever cross again, remember what you learned today.”

Turning his back on the cop, Jackson walked slowly towards the entrance of the park, covering his eyes from the painfully bright sunlight. He groaned from the pain as the throbbing in his temples increased in tempo.

“I need a drink,” he muttered. Pausing on the sidewalk to orient himself, Jackson turned in a full circle. His sense of direction regained, the mercenary headed back towards the bar district in search of alcohol.

—

There are limits to what water can do, hot or cold. Jackson stepped out of his shower and shook himself like a fur coated animal, sending droplets of water in all directions. He stared at his reflection in the mirror, noting his bloodshot eyes and a week’s worth of stubble. Having already brushed his teeth and showered, Jackson decided he might as well shave.

Ten minutes later, dressed in clean clothes and looking fairly human, Jackson headed out to take a walk and find something to eat. His headache had lessened enough the pain killer’s he’d ingested eliminated any trace of his hangover.

Locking his door behind him, Jackson walked down the dark hallway of the cheap tenement he lived in. The building was old, nothing more than stacked shipping containers inserted into a steel shell to stabilize the structure. The containers were converted into small, cramped one room apartments with a tiny bathroom and a cooking space. Using the handrail to make certain he didn’t lose his balance, Jackson descended three flights of stairs, eschewing the problematic elevator that often as not didn’t work.

Exiting the building, Jackson turned to the right, towards the center of town. After a brief walk the mercenary entered a small sandwich shop and sat down with his back to the wall at a table for two in the rear of the place, his view of the entrance unobscured.

Jackson waited while the owner prepared his food, the same sandwich he ate every time he frequented the shop. In the two-month period of time Jackson had frequented the establishment, the two men had spoken less than a dozen times. A healthy pre-payment to open a tab had earned Jackson the right to come and go as he pleased without talking. An arrangement both men found satisfactory.

His meal finished, Jackson leaned back against the wall and watched customers come and go, getting their food to go while others ate at the counter or one of the small tables for two or four. Feeling the same sense of despair he’d felt since his decision to leave the service of Black Star and abandon his unit on P-42686, Jackson for the millionth time questioned his purpose in life.

His time in the Alliance military had provided Jackson a great sense of pride. The comradery with his fellow members of the special forces brought Jackson great joy in his life. True friendship was rare and even more rare was the bonds formed by men who’d served and suffered hardships together. Jackson was a good soldier and an even better leader, rapidly rising up through the enlisted ranks to become a sergeant major.

It was a dangerous life, but one Jackson had loved.

The decision of a single politician had brought it all to a sudden end. Ignoring the protests of the Alliance military leaders, the politician had ordered the raid. The raid that turned into an atrocity, a political nightmare requiring the sacrifice of many to save the one who’d given the order. Dishonorable discharges were the fate of every man in Jackson’s unit.

Alone, saddled with a dishonorable discharge, and with no other prospects, Jackson had been an easy mark for the recruiters of the PMC Black Star. His new employers cared not at all about the lone blot of shame on Jackson’s resume. Black Star’s officers were ecstatic to hire a man with the former special forces operator’s skill set. It mattered not at all that two years later the political enemies of the politician managed to bring the man down through scandal.

In the ensuing public trial, everything came out, including the whitewashing of the atrocity the politician had ordered, a raid against a village with no military value. Pardons had been granted and honorable discharges entered on the records of those soldiers who were still alive.

None of it changed the reality of Jackson’s life.

Gone from his life was the respect accorded servicemen and women. In its place was the poor substitute of a contract with a PMC.

The years passed by, each one bringing with it more challenges to Jackson’s sense of right and wrong, what was proper conduct for a military man. In the end, the only thing Jackson knew to be right was obedience.

The sin, the wrongdoing lay with the senior officer who gave the order. Not the poor junior officer and NCOs who had to carry it out and certainly not the enlisted grunts who served as the sharp end of the spear. A student of history, Jackson came to suspect this was a universal truth. Politicians and Generals gave orders, made in the safety of a clean, dry room with plenty of food and drink. Grunts like him carried out the orders and suffered the true consequences.

Jackson watched a young couple come in, holding hands and laughing. They sat down together at the counter and ordered. The sight of the pair, young and happy, ignorant of the cruelty of life angered Jackson. He clenched his fists, fighting the urge to go and beat the young man senseless for no reason other than couple was happy and he, Jackson, was miserable.

“What am I doing here,” he muttered. Jackson stood and left, passing the young couple without a second glance.

Life was simple. It had two rules and two rules only. Soldiers obeyed orders and the weak were consumed by the strong.

He had no choice in the matter. He only thought he did.

Jackson glanced at his watch. He had plenty of time before he went back to The Plasma Gun.