8th month 9th day

Everything may have been holly joly and fun for the young adult, but the life of Roman was absolute shit at the best. He missed his homeland, his squadmates within the Psychic Legion and specifically, those god damn Thunderbolts. His family. His friends. Roman didn't ask for the life that was given to him, but rather was forced into it, and ever since that fateful day he dared to defy his commanding officer's order to level his rifle against innocent children, the Russian Psyker had been on the run and in hiding. Karakura was nice, but ever since his favorite place of charity got blown to hell, he struggled. From being a literal bum to using his psychic prowess to get what he needed, he was steadily becoming a blip on the radar, and that fucked him on this very night.

He'd been able to scrape up enough cash to get a cheap motel room, a mediocre dinner, but most importantly, a hot shower and a somewhat comfy bed. If only there was a Swan to accompany him.

Black vans and SUVs rolled down the street, an impromptu special forces unit tasked with either disabling the renegade Psyker, or killing him outright. They weren't exactly told of the Russian's true nature, but the hired mercenaries were more or less a test subject. Just because he was wanted back in the Leigon's base to get his brain pricked at didn't mean the powers that be could have their own sick and twisted version of fun. The mundane humans closed in, their vehicles surrounding the single entrance and exit of the hotel. They looked as though they could have been SWAT troopers, armored and wielding a variety of automatic and long ranged weaponry. The mercenaries couldn't have known what they were up against, and it became clear the moment the door to Roman's room kicked open that they were just lambs to the slaughter. Gunfire echoed across the city, but were shortlived. There were no screams. Every single man and woman who bore arms against him were killed quickly and efficiently, every round they fired bouncing off of his psychicly protected form. It was a slaughter, but that also meant Roman could not remain there. Sixty bucks, American, down the drain.

And so, Roman did as he always did...he ran, but with a massive amount of new toys strapped to his body.

Turning down an alleyway, Roman stopped at the closest dumpter. His payload of weaponry was dropped off, save for an array of combat knives stowed behind torn and ragged layers of clothing. From within the metallic garbage crate, the Russian took out an old Styrofoam coffee cup. Thankfully, and with a modicum of luck, it was bone dry on the inside and perfect for his continued image of a down on his luck, homelessman. Roman dropped beside the dumpster to his bottom, one hand held on the begging cup while he looked to more or less, be asleep. The act had fooled just about every person in this town, and while Roman was grateful to the people who spared loose change and bills, he could never come clean to any of them. If he did, he'd have to kill them. There were a few who were more curious than others, and they pried too far. They questioned more than they should have, and those innocent folks now rested six feet under.

So now, as Roman feigned rest with the cup, he felt as though he could almost pass out. His mind almost Brain Burned earlier, and no amount of coffee, energy drinks or booze could clear up the growing headache being born inside of his skull. Had Roman pushed himself just a little harder, he would have been bleeding from every place possible on his head. Thankfully, it didn't come to that. Thankfully, no additional backup arrived to confront him.