Oleg Maynard's Questionnaire

I live in Aurora, Colorado. It's a city that lets me stay close to my work at the University without being overwhelmed by the chaos of bigger cities like Denver. Aurora is quiet, and that suits me. I value having a place where I can focus on my research without distraction.

My home is small, functional. It’s a modest apartment, sparsely decorated. I don’t need much to be comfortable—just enough room for my books, notes, and the equipment I use for my DNA research. I have another space at the University, a set of quarters that serves as my second home. It’s more utilitarian than the apartment, but it’s where I spend most of my time when I'm not at lectures or meetings. It suits my needs and my ambition: efficiency over indulgence.

Aurora gives me the solitude I need, and my apartment reflects that—quiet, simple, but effective, like the city itself.

I make my money as a university lecturer twice a week and as a researcher at a drug company, a Bayer subsidiary. The work keeps me busy, but I’m recognized for my professionalism and dedication. My income is stable, and I live modestly, which is by choice.

A portion of what I earn goes to Doctors Without Borders—a cause I believe in. The rest covers my simple lifestyle. I indulge in very few luxuries: quality ice cream, a gym and boxing club membership - for fitness, stress management and self defense - and a few tailored suits that complement my sense of dignity and professionalism - whatever is left goes either to a modest savings account or becomes treats or dates for my mother and fiancée. These are my small rewards in a life otherwise dedicated to my research and the work that drives me.

My ambition is to ensure life survives the inevitable collapse of Earth's ecosystems. I believe we are standing on the edge of a disaster that will wipe out many species, including our own, and while we can point fingers at who or what is to blame, that's irrelevant to me. What matters is preparing for the collapse.

I believe DNA—the code of life—is humanity's greatest tool for survival, but the fact that it’s locked in individual species may be its downfall. I’m working on multi-species splicing, combining the genetic material of different organisms into a single body, creating a new form of life capable of enduring the extremes we will face. I know it’s theoretically possible, but just outside my reach. My research could offer one of the few chances for life to continue, and I’ll stop at nothing to achieve it.

Would I kill for it? Not without reason, but if the future of life itself is at stake, I would be willing to make those sacrifices. And as for my own life—I’m fully prepared to give it. I’d come as close to death as needed, even cross that line, to make sure this work is completed. If I succeed, my body might even be a prototype of the survival strategy I’m striving for. This is bigger than me, and I’m ready to pay any price.

The most defining event of my life was when my father attacked me and my mother with acid. I was just a child, and that moment changed everything. My disfigurement became a constant reminder of that day, but it also shaped who I am. My mother, despite everything, was loving and sacrificed so much to give me an education and a future. She showed me what real strength looks like.

Because of what happened, I had to work harder than others—twice as hard, really. People see the scars first, and that means I’ve always had to prove myself beyond the surface. It made me meticulous, driven, and relentless. My appearance may have been altered, but it made me the person I am today—dedicated, hardworking, and unwilling to settle for less than what I deserve.

Vera Maynard (Mother) – The person I’m closest to, without a doubt. My mother, Vera, is a force of nature. She raised me on her own after the attack, sacrificing so much to ensure I had the education and opportunities I needed to thrive. She’s a retired nurse, fiercely intelligent, and unyielding in her love and support. Growing up, she didn’t coddle me—she pushed me, made sure I understood that I was more than my disfigurement. She’s the reason I became the person I am today, and I owe her everything.

James Caldwell (Stepfather) – James came into my life during my teens, and while I was initially guarded, he earned my respect. He’s a history teacher with a deep love for classic literature and philosophy. He’s not the most expressive man, but he’s always been a calming presence, offering wisdom when I needed it most. He taught me how to keep perspective and how to stay grounded, even when things got difficult. His moral compass and calm strength have been invaluable to me.

Elena Vasquez (Fiancée) – Elena is the light in my life. She’s a lawyer and bioethicist—brilliant, passionate, and with a sense of humor that offsets my seriousness. We met through our shared interest in genetic research, and while our discussions often turn intense, she knows how to bring me back to earth when I get too caught up in my work. She understands my drive but also reminds me to live outside of it. Elena challenges me in the best ways, and she’s the person I can’t imagine moving forward without.

My childhood was both fortunate and challenging. On one hand, I was incredibly lucky—my mother is loving, and my stepfather has always been a good man and both made it their life's mission to take care of me. On the other hand, I spent an excessive amount of time in the hospital, undergoing surgeries and physical therapy to address the effects of the acid attack. The psychological scars run deep, though I’ve been fortunate to have a supportive family throughout.

School was more difficult. Fitting in didn’t come easily—making friends was a challenge, especially with the way other kids stared or taunted me. But I learned how to speak to people, how to handle the looks. I found solace in meditation and boxing, both of which helped me manage the stress and bullying. Considering everything, I suppose I’m surprisingly well-adjusted, all things considered. My family and those small personal victories made that possible.

Yes, I’m in love—very much so. Elena and I have built something solid over the years, and if everything goes according to plan, I fully intend to marry her once I finish med school. We’ve even discussed the idea of starting a family in the near future, though we both agree that it will have to wait until I’ve secured a more stable job after graduation. She’s been incredibly supportive through it all, even when it comes to the contracts. Of course, she worries—there’s no avoiding that when you’re dealing with this kind of danger—but she understands what’s at stake more than most people would. Her work in bioethics gives her a unique perspective, and that helps her process it. It’s not easy, but we’re on the same page, and having her by my side makes all the difference. We’re in this together, and that’s how I know it will work out.

My worst fears are numerous, though I try to address them systematically. First, acid remains a significant source of distress. Despite the progress made in my life, I still experience recurring nightmares involving the attack. These episodes are vivid, and the physical damage, though healed, seems to resurface mentally during moments of vulnerability.

I am also concerned about the safety of my mother and Elena. There is no current evidence suggesting they are in danger, but I find myself frequently monitoring their well-being. I remind myself that these checks are logical, given the circumstances, but the frequency might suggest a deeper preoccupation - that, of course, is exacerbated by the current state of events, with the contracts and extra-curricular activites. Both of them are supportive of my involvement with the supernatural and with alien forces, since there is just so much that can be achieve by mundane means, but they do get worried.

Finally, my overarching objective—becoming a living reservoir of biodiversity—presents a significant source of uncertainty. The path is long, and while I am making progress, there is always the concern that it may not be enough. Even if I succeed in creating this archive, I question whether it will be sufficient to preserve resilience in the face of environmental collapse. This thought persists, no matter how much I focus on immediate tasks.

My most prized possession is, without question, the science and chemistry set that currently furnishes my personal laboratory. It was not assembled all at once but rather accumulated over the years—each beaker, plate, and distillation apparatus acquired through either gifts or small purchases from Elena, my mother, my stepfather, and my mother-in-law. Every item represents a personal connection and a significant investment in my work, both financially and emotionally.

Despite being offered access to a superior university laboratory, outfitted with far more advanced equipment, I continue to prefer working on my personal projects at home. The atmosphere of my home lab cannot be replicated. It is a space where every piece of equipment carries the weight of belief—belief in my theories, in my goals—despite the overwhelming reasons others had to doubt them. For me, it’s not about having the best tools but about what those tools represent: the people who stood by me when others didn’t.

The biggest problem I’m facing is the gap between my ambition and my current abilities. Every contract I’ve completed has made it evident that while contractors are capable of impressive feats, we are still highly vulnerable. The scale of the challenges we face—whether supernatural anomalies or other forces—consistently reveals just how underprepared we are. It’s not just my own limitations; the others I’ve worked with, Eon, Gav, Shane—they have strengths, certainly, but none of us are operating anywhere near the level we need to be.

The frustration is specific. I know what needs to be done, and I understand the steps required, but the power I currently possess is simply inadequate to meet those demands. The distance between my current state and the scale of the task ahead is substantial. It’s a calculated frustration, not born from impatience, but from recognizing that without significant improvement, the goals I’ve set for myself will remain out of reach. More power, more resources, more time—I don’t have nearly enough of any of these, and until I do, I remain constrained by the limits of my current condition.

A typical morning starts at 5:30 a.m. sharp. I wake up, clear-headed, and spend the first few minutes cataloging any relevant details from the previous night’s dreams. Coffee comes next—black, as always. While the coffee brews, I review the day’s schedule. Everything must be laid out clearly, whether it’s research, studies, or a contract. I’ve found that having a structured start to the day prevents unnecessary deviation later.

Physical conditioning follows immediately. I prioritize boxing routines, strength exercises, and flexibility drills. It’s not just about staying in shape—it's about ensuring that my body can handle whatever comes next, whether in the lab or the field. By 6:30 a.m., I’m finished. I shower, shave, and dress with precision. The suit is always tailored, clean and intentional. The sharpness of clashes with my complexion, but generally leaves behind an impression that I don't dislike - one that asks people to treat me seriously.

Before leaving, I check my messages. I always send Elena a quick note, then review any remaining research or notes for the day. By 7:30 a.m., I’m ready to leave, knowing that everything has been accounted for. The day is planned, and I’m prepared.

For a special occasion, it’s important to note that my standards for appearance remain consistent—I go well-dressed everywhere, regardless of the circumstances. A formal event, however, might warrant a more deliberate approach. If I were preparing to impress, perhaps my fiancée or my mother, both of whom appreciate substance over superficiality (and would be the first to dismiss purely aesthetic efforts), my focus would not be on simply dressing “better” but on embracing the formality of the occasion itself, given I have neither the interest nor the opportunity to engage in too many of those and Elena does enjoy evenings out.

In preparing for, say, a black-tie dinner, my process would be meticulous. I’d start by carefully selecting each element: a black suit with satin lapels, chosen for its impeccable fit, paired with a freshly pressed white dress shirt. Next, I’d choose a bow tie—symmetrically tied—and understated silver cufflinks. Footwear would be polished patent leather oxfords paired with silk socks.

Finally, the fragrance: subtle and refined, perhaps a blend with cedar undertones, added only sparingly. The entire process would take around 90 minutes, ensuring each detail aligns with both the event’s formality and the standards I set for myself.

Every year on my birthday, I start the day with a visit to Brookwood Park. It’s a small, reserved space on the edge of town, bordered by oak and beech trees, with a narrow pond along its far side. During my school years, I would come here regularly to study or sit by the water. Now, it’s become a tradition—a place where I can take the morning to reflect, review the year’s progress, and recalibrate my objectives in solitude. Brookwood holds a particular significance; it connects me to my earliest goals and reminds me why I pursue them.

After this, the day moves into a different rhythm. Elena and my family insist on organizing their own ways of celebrating, which I join for their sake. Elena typically arranges a private dinner, and my mother and stepfather add some spontaneity that contrasts with my own plans. Their gatherings are enjoyable in a different way, adding a balance to the day. It’s not something I’d choose alone, but I recognize the importance of their involvement, and I’m glad to indulge them.

My greatest regret lies in the years I spent pursuing the conventional path. Early on, I was focused on predictable, measured goals—research within controlled parameters, managing the pharmacy, maintaining a strict professional routine. Those years held a value I didn’t fully appreciate, years that could have been spent preparing for the realities I now face as a contractor.

Had I acted sooner, pushed the limits of my work, and expanded my research beyond conventional boundaries earlier, I might be in a stronger position now. I could have delved into mutagenic studies or physiological adaptation much sooner, building a stronger foundation for what I now pursue.

There’s also a familial element to this regret. My family has always supported me, even through these shifts in my work. I wonder, if I had started sooner, if I might have already achieved something tangible—something they could see, beyond words or plans.

The nature of my Gifts isn’t as straightforward as inherent potential or granted wishes. They’re built on the backbone of investigative breakthroughs—mutagenics, source-infused biology, and fringe medical knowledge. But raw source, the material necessary to convert theory into tangible, functional results, is exceedingly rare and very precious. Small amounts regenerate when I rest, yet these are inconsequential compared to what’s required to make real progress in the chosen field. True advancements need large quantities of source, and those only come as a form of repayment after a contract victory.

In practical terms, I develop the knowledge to reframe biology and push the boundaries of medicine—concepts and applications most would find useless without a mind prepared to apply them. Only then, with the right conditions and sufficient source, can I shape the “fringe” into something usable and real. There are no gifts here—just hard-won resources allowing expansion into new territory.

Elena's question about my views on spirituality and religion caught me off guard today. It's not a topic I often contemplate, given my preference for empirical evidence and rational explanations. To be clear: I'm an atheist. My worldview is rooted in the natural world and scientific method. Spiritual beliefs hold no personal significance for me beyond their sociological implications.

As a contractor, I've encountered phenomena that some might label "metaphysical" or "supernatural." However, I maintain these are simply natural processes we don't yet comprehend. The universe is vast and complex, containing multitudes beyond our current understanding. Our scientific methods, while powerful, may be crude instruments for exploring reality's full intricacies. I find the invocation of ghosts, deities, or similar constructs intellectually lazy. These often serve as linguistic shortcuts for phenomena we can't yet explain properly.

Despite my convictions, I've learned not to antagonize others' beliefs. The diversity of human experiences means people arrive at their beliefs through paths I may not grasp. After witnessing the inexplicable, I understand belief systems often stem from experiences that transcend my perspective. Elena jokes that I approach metaphysics with the same detached curiosity I apply to reproducing bacteria. Perhaps she's right. But isn't that wonder - that drive to understand - its own form of reverence for the universe's complexity?

While I remain committed to seeking natural explanations, I acknowledge the vastness of what we've yet to discover. My disbelief in the supernatural doesn't diminish my awe at the natural world's intricacies. If anything, it enhances it. I'll continue to approach the unknown with skepticism, curiosity, and an open mind - even if that mind remains firmly grounded in the physical realm. After all, the thrill of unraveling new mysteries through scientific inquiry is, to me, far more exciting than any supernatural explanation.

The contracts often challenge my worldview in ways I never anticipated. As a scientist and rationalist, I've always prided myself on my ability to explain the world through empirical observation and logical deduction. Yet, the horrors I've witnessed during these missions frequently defy conventional explanation.

When faced with events that seem to contradict everything I've held true, I've learned that flexibility alone is insufficient. Sometimes, it's an unshakable faith in one's principles and strength of character that sees you through. It's a paradox - maintaining rational thought in irrational situations. I won't deny that these experiences have shaken me to my core. There have been moments when I've questioned the very foundations of my understanding of reality. But I've come to realize that dwelling on these doubts during a contract is a luxury I cannot afford.

In the heat of a mission, when the impossible becomes possible and the unreal becomes real, I focus on what I can control. I channel my energy into achieving results, into finding whatever small glimmer of good I can produce. Sometimes, that good is nothing more than survival - and that has to be enough.

The luxury of self-doubt, of questioning my perceptions and beliefs, I reserve for the safety of my lab or the comfort of home. There, I can dissect these experiences, analyze them, and attempt to reconcile them with my understanding of the world. But in the field, faced with the inexplicable and the terrifying, I hold fast to my goal of affecting positive change. It's this purpose, this drive to make a difference, that keeps me grounded when reality itself seems to unravel. Grit your teeth, brave the storm.

In my line of work, extensive collaboration is rare — a circumstance I find agreeable. However, two individuals have made notable impressions:

Gav Jacinto (~20, F). Utilizes genetic enhancements and custom biology, not dissimilar to my own methodologies. Her approach to augmentation appears scientifically sound, though I've yet to conduct a thorough analysis. Professional demeanor. Efficient in the field. Minimal unnecessary conversation. A tolerable colleague.

Ion (~15, F). Concerning age for this profession. Parents' decision to allow unsupervised contract work is questionable at best, negligent at worst. Displays potential and attitude, but lacks experience. The South African mission highlighted her vulnerabilities - and mine, truth be told. Post-mission analysis indicates an increase in my cognitive resources allocated to ensuring Ion's safety during joint operations, which still were not enough. This protective instinct, while not entirely logical, persists. Perhaps a byproduct of recognizing her potential coupled with her current state of misguided youth.

It's crucial to maintain professional boundaries in this line of work. Emotional attachments can lead to compromised judgment and decreased mission efficiency. However, I find myself... concerned for Ion's well-being. A sentiment I must carefully manage.

Regular interactions with these individuals have not negatively impacted my performance. Their presence is tolerable, occasionally beneficial. Nonetheless, I prefer operations with burner loyalties for optimal control and efficiency.

While the concept of a "perfect room" is inherently subjective, I find myself drawn to spaces that facilitate both intellectual growth and practical application. My preferences, in order of significance, are as follows:

Outdoor Parks are the optimal environment for clear thinking and physical well-being. Natural light, fresh air, and minimal auditory pollution provide an ideal setting for contemplation and problem-solving. The absence of confined spaces is particularly appealing.

If indoor spaces are necessary, the library at [redacted] University comes to mind and holds a unique appeal. Its vast collection of scientific journals and well-maintained quiet areas create an atmosphere conducive to focused research. The olfactory stimulation of aged paper and leather bindings is... not unpleasant. This location also holds personal significance as the site where I first encountered Elena, my fiancée. While sentiment should not influence professional assessments, I acknowledge a certain... fondness for this space.

As a professional necessity and personal curiosity, I also enjoy all manner of    laboratories and fabrication stations. For purely practical purposes, a room combining a state-of-the-art laboratory with an advanced fabrication station would be most efficient. Such a space would allow for seamless transition between theoretical work and practical application, maximizing productivity and minimizing time waste.

As a researcher of life and a healer, my philosophy is rooted in a simple yet profound truth: while there's life, there's hope. This isn't mere sentimentality, but a scientific observation born from years of study and practice.

Life, in all its myriad forms, demonstrates an extraordinary resilience and adaptability. It persists in the face of seemingly insurmountable odds, finding new pathways and expressions even as environments change and challenges arise. This persistence is at the core of my work and my fascination with biological systems. My pursuit of becoming a "living vault" against the collapse of ecosystems is testament to the belief that "life always finds a way." It's more than an academic exercise; it's a recognition of life's inherent chaos and its glorious rebellion against entropy. While the universe tends towards disorder, life expends energy to create and maintain complex structures and systems.

Paradoxically, stability for living things is death. The moment a biological system reaches perfect equilibrium, it ceases to be alive. Life thrives on instability, on constant flux and adaptation. This very quality makes it resilient and endlessly fascinating to study.

As I work to preserve and understand various life forms, I'm continually struck by the ingenuity of evolutionary adaptations. Each species, each organism, carries within it a history of survival against the odds. By studying these mechanisms, by learning to manipulate and enhance them, we open doors to possibilities that border on the miraculous. Yet, this work is not without ethical complexities. The power to alter life comes with immense responsibility. As I push the boundaries of what's possible in healing and biological manipulation, I must always be mindful of the potential consequences.

In my line of work, one must maintain a clear understanding of one's limits. Mine are unambiguous: atrocities, capture, and near-death experiences. These boundaries are not arbitrary; they are the pillars that support my sense of self and my place in this world.

My aversion to atrocities speaks to my unwavering belief in the sanctity of human life and dignity. Despite the often morally ambiguous nature of our contracts, I refuse to partake in acts that would strip away the humanity of others or myself. This limit is a testament to my commitment to preserving the ethical core of my being, even in the face of challenging circumstances.

The limit regarding capture is rooted in my fierce protection of personal freedom. The thought of being at the mercy of another's will is... deeply unsettling. This boundary reflects my need for autonomy and control, particularly over my own body and mind—tools I've honed meticulously over the years.

As for near-death experiences, while I've come close more times than I care to admit, I draw the line at deliberately putting myself in situations where survival is improbable. This limit speaks to my pragmatism and my belief that I can do more good alive than dead.

These limits are not merely personal preferences; they are the framework upon which I've built my professional and personal ethics. They reflect my rather conservative and, some might say, old-fashioned moral values. I make no apologies for this. In a world of shifting allegiances and moral relativism, having clear, immovable boundaries provides a necessary anchor.

However, I'm not naive enough to believe these limits are inviolable. The circumstances that would drive me to break them are few but significant: protecting my family or preventing the breaking of another, more crucial limit. The hierarchy of these limits is not lost on me. I would risk capture or even death to prevent an atrocity, especially if Elena or my family were involved.

It's worth noting that I find it... distasteful when others are forced to cross these limits on my behalf. It speaks to a failure in planning or execution on my part. If a situation requires the crossing of such boundaries, I prefer to bear that burden myself.

Breaking these limits would come at a significant personal cost. It would require a recalibration of my moral compass, a process that would undoubtedly leave scars. The psychological toll of such actions is not something I take lightly.

Kombi – “Słodkiego, Miłego Życia”
My mother would play this song on old cassettes while we prepped dinner in our first American apartment—a ritual of grounding normalcy amidst uncertain years and scarred faces. Even now, its synth lines evoke the scent of her stew and the resilience she quietly modeled every day.

Maanam – “Krakowski Spleen”
During long road trips with my mother and stepfather across the Midwest, this song was always on the drive’s playlist. Its melancholic optimism fit perfectly with those blurred landscapes out the window, and with our family’s state—rootless, but together.

Led Zeppelin – “Immigrant Song”
Rock seldom felt personal, but this song caught me flat-footed with its raw honesty and mythic energy. Though born in America, I learned the culture as an outsider—speaking accented English, carrying my father’s scars, learning to bargain with two worlds. “Immigrant Song” captures the restless chase and the strange pride of survival—the way I felt in every new classroom, in every new lab, still quietly foreign, still forging my own myth out of borrowed ground.

Johnny Cash – “Folsom Prison Blues”
My introduction to American music—played frequently in the hospital’s rec room while I recovered from early graft surgeries. Its austerity and candor gave me a sense of American resilience: not bluster, but quiet endurance.

Klaus Nomi – “The Cold Song”
I discovered this as a teenager, obsessively reading and experimenting late into the night. His alien voice mirrored how I felt—dislocated, never quite belonging, but finding power in strangeness. This track still plays before delicate procedures, focusing my mind.

Budka Suflera – “Jolka, Jolka pamiętasz”
This was my stepfather James’s grudging concession to “my mother’s music.” It played at every family birthday—tacky, sentimental, and thus sacred. Family, for all its flaws and scars, insists on joy where it can.

Leonard Cohen – “Anthem”
Elena once left a clipped lyric from this song in my coat pocket before a pivotal surgery. It’s become a reminder to accept imperfection—in myself, in my work, in the world. It returns to me when silence is thick and the weight of preservation threatens to become too much.

Retirement, in any conventional sense, is not a concept that applies to my path. My ambition is not fed by accolades, comfort, or even personal achievement—it is demanded by necessity. The trajectory of civilization is now unmistakably downward. We are well past the threshold where gentle reforms might avert collapse; the supports of Earth’s biosphere are buckling, and inertia will carry current systems to their inevitable end. That process will not be orderly.

I am not naïve enough to believe I can halt the collapse. I do not possess the power to unmake societies, nor to persuade billions at scale. Climate catastrophe and ecological breakdown are already assured; the best I can offer is preparation for what comes after—the “after” where knowledge, samples, and the capacity to restore balance become the only hope for renewal. My work operates on that horizon. Every catalogued genome, every preserved tissue, is a brick for rebuilding when violence and privation have run their course.

As my capabilities deepen, my responsibilities only grow. More possible avenues, more at stake—never less. The idea of rest, of stepping aside, is fundamentally incompatible with the nature of the task. I will keep working until my body fails or I am rendered obsolete by progress itself. There is no finish line here—only a ceaseless, often thankless struggle to preserve the raw material of life for those who will come later, including the people I love. My ambition is not optional. Neither is the work.

Superficial irritations are commonplace — runny ice cream, undisclosed culinary substitutions in ethnic food restaurants, unsupervised children in public spaces, the tasteless cacophony named electronic dance music, or any environment that assaults the senses with excess and chaos.

Schopenhauer was right—noise is not just an interruption, but an outright assault on thought. There’s a sacredness to silence, or at least to the respectful containment of sound to its proper place. Hospitals, libraries, forests—they demand quiet because they house either frailty, knowledge, or the fragile balance of life. I have never understood the casual violence of intrusive noise, or why some find meaning in uproar. Silence clarifies. It sharpens observation, allows the mind to listen inward, to reason and to repair. Intelligence, I think, is grown in those deliberate absences where nothing is required but attention. I secretly harbor the suspicion most people thrive in distractions because they would collapse if they took a few minutes of silent reflection to gaze upon themselves. Alas, these discomforts serve as daily reminders that order, self-reflection and precision are sadly undervalued.

Still, true anger—real, sustained fury—remains rare for me. Self-mastery is non-negotiable; I consider composure a mark of professionalism, if not character.

However, there are lines that provoke a deeper, more visceral response. Chief among them are acts of cruelty or neglect toward the vulnerable: children, the infirm, or those whose circumstances render them defenseless. Threatening, demeaning, or harming people in these categories is intolerable. While I will maintain outward restraint to the best of my ability, such affronts strike at the very rationale behind my work. Preservation, after all, is not simply a question of biology or ecology—it is, at its core, an ethical obligation to shield those who cannot shield themselves.

To summarize: minor irritations are managed with discipline; real anger is reserved for those rare situations in which innocence or dignity is violated. Even then, I channel it—not to lose control, but to direct it into focused, meaningful action.

Nothing. I have little regard for secrets in the traditional sense. As Gene Wilder once observed, there is a structure to intimacy: some matters are private, some are personal, and most simply remain public by default. I believe in discretion and maintaining a profile sufficiently subdued that my actions and experiences slip beneath the notice—and concern—of those not directly engaged with me.

When speaking to Elena, I describe my adventures simply as “fieldwork”—perhaps a stubborn vestige, perhaps a kindness. There’s no need for drama. I’ve arranged a flexible laboratory and hospital schedule, quietly shifting responsibilities so my absences create little ripple. Organization, preparedness, and consideration—these are my ways of honoring both my commitments and Elena’s peace of mind.

Secrets are, in my view, liabilities; they complicate thought, breed anxiety, and can even endanger health. Consistent composure and discretion make secrets unnecessary. My life is orderly not because I conceal it, but because I don’t advertise it.

If I made it to Harbinger, I doubt I’d adopt any of the usual grandiose titles. Most Harbinger names border on the theatrical—symbols of separation more than service. I’m a doctor and, perhaps begrudgingly, a sage, but I’ve never felt elevated above those I work with, even while walking the path of ascension. Maybe I’d go by Doctor Sage—half joke, half shield, to blunt the formality. It brings to mind other fictional doctors with strange fates, as Doctor Moreau and Doctor Channard.

My contracts would differ, too. I have no interest in demonstrations of power or cryptic cruelties: maybe becoming a voyeur of human misery is a step in the right direction in this line of work, but it hold little allure to me. I’d focus on preservation—work that protects human society and the natural world, building a stable foundation for generations I’ll never meet. If that means my name remains quietly unremarkable, all the better.

Not everyone I’ve worked with deserved a second thought. As a physician, I never pick and choose who I treat—but among contractors, judgment is sometimes necessary. For those whose choices placed them beyond redemption—bullies, abusers, monsters—their passing is simply an end. I might recover useful items, not to enrich myself, but to keep dangerous tools from falling into the wrong hands. Risk, however, is a measured thing; I don’t gamble lives for salvage.

When it’s a friend—a true ally—the calculus changes. Their loss isn’t just a line in a ledger; it’s a private reckoning. I’d grieve for them, and for my own failing, because every preventable death is, in part, my mistake: in most teams I'm in, I'm the doctor, I'm the person responsible for keeping the team together and breathing. I’d remember, quietly, without fanfare. Memorials mean little to the dead, but a careful memory means something to me.

Contracts inevitably clash with law enforcement—that much, I’ve learned. My own approach is cautious, not adversarial. I believe in incremental progress, not upheaval; revolutions, in my experience, dissolve law and concentrate power in ways that invite abuse. I value what good police represent: order, protection, the rule of law—at least, when practiced with integrity. Sadly, that standard is less and less common.

Covering my tracks isn’t about defying justice, but about sidestepping systems corrupted by haste, bias, or neglect. I plan meticulously and I also maintain the habits of a model citizen; sometimes the most effective disguise is simple, quiet normalcy. It’s not about working above the law, but around broken parts of it. If there’s ever a truly honest officer, it’d be my instinct to help rather than hinder. But as it stands, discretion and preparedness are my shield against both excess and incompetence. The world needs the law for all it is worth, but it also needs people who do what contractors do and, regrettably, those two truths are difficult to reconcile.

The law broken is rarely as important as the spirit behind it. Contractors, by their nature, justify anything if it brings them closer to their goals—ambition breeds rationalization, and the line between necessity and atrocity blurs. I don’t pretend innocence, but there are boundaries I won’t ignore.

For me, there are crimes that can never be explained away—violence against children, the elderly, the defenseless; wanton cruelty; any act of sexual predation. These cross into territory beyond forgiveness. In such cases, silence equals complicity. I may not trust the authorities to deliver justice, but I won’t allow monsters to walk unchecked.

If a teammate commits such a crime, I won’t protect them. Sometimes that means a quiet word to those who will pursue justice, sometimes it means handling the matter directly, whatever the cost to my conscience. Most other violations—property, fraud, skirting lesser laws in service to survival—I can tolerate within reason, with wary eyes and held breath.

Not everyone can live in peace. But I must be able to look in the mirror, and I draw my line accordingly.

Repugnance is quite relative—pain, blood, deformity, all of it became familiar in due course. I am not squeamish, and discomfort does not stall me. The only things I truly refuse are those which violate the few unwavering lines I hold: no cruelty to the defenseless, no harm to children, no crimes born purely of sadism. If a Harbinger proposed such a contract, I would walk away without hesitation.

Short of that, I do not flinch from what must be done. My goal is not purity, but power—the kind of power that allows me to set things right, however incrementally. The price is clear: to do good on a broad scale, I must accept the ambiguity, the moral ugliness, and sometimes the open cruelty that contracts demand. I endure it because I know every refusal narrows my influence, and without influence, intent means nothing.

It is a terrible calculation, but it is honest. I refuse the lines that would make me a monster, nothing more. For the rest, I act, and carry the consequences as best I can.

No individual Harbinger draws my preference or hatred. All are variations of the same design: sadistic intermediaries thriving on our desperation. Even the ones with manners are only putting on a better mask for the same ugly job.

If I had to pick one as “tolerable,” it would be The Talent. He conducts business with something like civility, even if the effect is closer to a used car salesman than a patron of the arts. I respect efficiency, and Talent delivers contracts without unnecessary spectacle or bloodshed—when possible, at least.

On the other hand, The Old Scion is memorable only for all the wrong reasons. There’s nothing philosophical or moral in my aversion—just the practical problem of what his presence does to clothing, equipment, and respiratory health. Working for him means budgeting for extra dry cleaning and possibly hazard pay.

Ultimately, negotiating with Harbingers comes down to control: keeping their habits and theatrics at arm’s length, never letting them become anything more than what they are. Tools, not colleagues.