Agent Davis McGee

Growing up in a Beaverville and attending private Catholic school, Davis was, literally, an altar boy. After two years in the service, joining the Bureau was an easy lateral move - you didn't get shot at as much and you still got to take out terrorists. Fifteen years on from that the shiny has worn off. Hell, the whole bumper is gone, the tires are shot, and rust is eating through the undercarriage, but three years from a pension is no time to quit. Davis is going to suck it up and pretend he's still making the world safe for civilians, and this isn't all just about the megacorps wanting their serfs nice and tranquil.
Davis stopped caring a long time ago what you drank, snorted, or stuck in your chip jack, as long as the only person you were hurting was yourself. Truth be told he doesn't even give a damn who the gangers and the runners are hurting either, as long as it's each other and the corps. When it's sloppy and civilians are in the crossfire is when his blood starts to rise. Then the mafia lost its shit and started using grenades in Chicago, he was downright excited to be selected for the taskforce that was sent to sort them out. Ten hours a day undercover as a Quickie Mart clerk while surveilling a schlock Irish Bar that the mob is clearly using for...something...had him thinking he's pissed off someone at the home office again. The day he found out they were starting to wrap up some of the big fish and he'd been selected to stay deep cover for the next year he knew he'd pissed off someone.
Never let it be said your day can't get worse though, and that fucking thing that showed up later that night at the store...the pretty boy Ork who everyone seems to know sailed in with a spirit that looked like something out of that retro-vid Deathly Hallows. Davis hadn't expected the Ork to throw the busted cooler (fucking magic) where the surveillance gear was hidden (along with a couple of BTLs Davis had intended to enjoy when off shift) but by that time Davis had one of the rollers from the hot dog rack jammed through his right lung, so there weere bigger things to worry about. Afterwards the Ork bitched about how much 'ware Davis had in him as we was healing him and then scanned through the tapes for different angles on that stupid bar. "Mr. Clean" he said his name was, and he told Davis they were on the same side. The tip on where to get some better quality BTLs Clean had given him turned out to be spot on, and the grand that Clean dropped in his pocket added nicely to the retirement nest egg...although there was that new bit of gear Doc Beryl had hinted at...

You think, eventually, that nothing can disturb you and that your nerves are impregnable. Yet, in this line of work, I realized that death is something to which we never really become calloused.