I just helped a friend bury his parents. Maybe this means I should talk about my own family.
...
I suppose I should start at the beginning.
If you've seen me on the memo at all in my stint in North Africa, you've probably heard me complain its too hot. Well that's because for most of my life, at least my life before my native session, was spent in northern British Columbia. It was hardly a bad life; quiet, isolated, but there are always trade offs.
My uncle and I lived in a house that was technically owned by the government, it was ours, do not get me wrong, but we had obligations for living there. We had to keep track of people moving in and out of the area and if there was an accident we were the first ones on the scene. This was in addition to any maintenance that needed to be done on the trails and such.
My uncle, James "Marshall" Mason was really the only person I had in my life prior to the Game. He was a very formidable man and father figure. He taught me damn near everything I know, from talking, reading and writing to first aid and triage to surviving in a blizzard to climbing a mountain to playing guitar. But he wasn't there all the time. I didn't understand it when I was small, why I was being left alone in the cabin for hours on end, but I do now. He had to do what was necessary, for the good of everyone. As I got older, I started helping out with his work. Made my greenhouse, learned how to cook so that he didn't have to, and eventually started taking some of his patrols and repair work.
As for the rest, well, I think that can wait for another time. My next shift is starting, and the work is never done.