<div class="floatleft">(https://cdnb.artstation.com/p/assets/images/images/007/768/089/large/renzo-mejia-montes-black-canary-katheryn-winnick.jpg?1508374765)</div><strong>Name:</strong>Ekaterina "Katheryn" Belova<br/><strong>Location:</strong>The Afterlife<br/><strong>Tagging:</strong>Open<br/><strong>Content:</strong>Having a drink<br/><hr/><hr/><br/><em>“I was a licensed investigator who knocked off somebody who needed knocking off bad and he couldn’t get to me. So I was a murderer by definition and all the law could do was shake its finger.”* </em>If she ever had an autobiography written about Ekaterina Belova (or Katheryn White for the ones who could not pronounce her Slavic name) that would have been the first paragraph.<br/><br/>A washed up Private Eye, an ex detective from the NCPD, kicked out because she could not drop a case when told so. Kicked out because she could not close her eyes and to turn her head when told so. At least she got to keep her life. Not that you could call this a life though... But the fact remained, a lot of her colleagues would simply get a bullet to the head in some back alley or end up in the toxic waters near the port. All written down as mugging or<em>they wanted to swim</em>.<br/><br/>Now she was drowning her misery at the Afterlife and it was not even night. Or was it? She could not keep track of the time. The cheap bottle of half-finished vodka was standing in front of her reflecting the few lights at the place.<br/><br/>Yeah, yeah, she was aware of the stereotypes, but it reminded her of home. Even though she had never been to the place... Nor would be able to. After all SovOil does not forgive, nor forget. So the moment she stepped on Soviet ground she would be taken in, tortured then executed out of sheer spite.<br/><br/>Her cheek was resting on the dirty surface of the table, her half-burnt cigarette still smoking and small bits of ash were falling in the tray. Katheryn grimaced and put it back in her mouth and gave a pull, then exhaled the smoke. Not the most comfortable position to do that, but she did not care.<br/><br/>It did not matter... nothing mattered.<br/><br/>Her PI services were not that sought after. No one really cared if someone disappeared, or at least the ones that mattered, the ones that would give her a lot of eddies and connect her to their friends if they needed her services.<br/><br/>Her former colleagues shunned her, aside of River who gave her a case or two on the side, but he had his own investigation going and there was no way he could include her as she would taint it with her presence.<br/><br/>Aside of that she kept a file of some interesting things that she had noticed, but currently lacked the resources to pursue. Lots of cloak and dagger shit happening in Night City and if you could piece together the puzzle you could either profit or... get killed...<br/><br/>Or even both...<br/><br/>So to make ends meet she took odd jobs as an enforcer. Despite her looks she was a capable fighter and as an ex-cop she knew how to intimidate most street level morons. Those were okay jobs. The ones that she hated were consulting some smug piece of shit how to get away from prosecution on technicalities.<br/><br/>Though, occasionally even those could be satisfying when the detective in charge was one of the bastards whose guts she hated. In a sense she was flipping them by doing this.<br/><br/>Katheryn sighed, this silver linings bullshit was not working today. Hopefully someone could swing by and give her a real PI job... or any job... beggars can't be choosers amirite?<br/><br/><em>OOC: * the quote is from Mickey Spillane, The Mike Hammer Collection: Volume I </em>