Vrasten Nordskov

Age 39
Hair Blonde
Height 1.75m
Weight 89kg
Eyes
Handedness Either/or
Siblings None Parents Deceased
DOB 14th Nov 1977

The Past

Born into an orthodox Christian home in 1977 in the cramped suburbs of Mostar, Yugoslavia, Vrasten Nordskov grew up in a crowded crumbling tenement building amongst the depravation of a failing system. As an only child he struggled to try & meet the expectations of his elderly parents who could not, or would not, comprehend the impending political breakdown of once proud Yugoslavia. His parents greatest wish was for dear sweet Vrasten to enter into the family bakery business. In 1991 life as he new it disintegrated as open conflict between Muslim, Christian & Catholic raged.

Over the following years the well documented political upheaval eventually lead to the break up of Yugoslavia, his hometown, now forming part of the twin states of Herzgovina & Bosnia. Vrasten was to learn many new skills, some unwanted, during the bloody civil war as atrocities perpetuated religious boundaries.

In 1997 as his country desperately worked towards to an uneasy peace Vrasten, against his parent's wishes & despite their concerns for his safety, enlisted within the newly created local Bosnian police force working hand in hand with the ITPF. Regrettably though it was not Vrasten who suffered for his dreams but his parents, both were caught in the blast of a remotely detonated car bomb on a S-For controlled checkpoint.

Devastated, Vrasten, his ideals shattered, fled Mostar & headed for Western Europe & onward to the land of plenty, the USA. Arriving illegally in 1999, Vrasten bizarrely soon found himself employed as a casual by the Immigration Dept as an interpreter for other potential political & economic refugees.

In 2001, the year before the Canadian & Soviet agricrash, Vrasten's legal entitlement to reside in the USA was granted whereupon he immediately applied for, & was accepted into, the Night City PD.

The Present

"Fourteen years, fourteen stinkin' years of shit & what have I got to show for it, a dozen or so holes that God didn't give me, an' a divorce, hell, better a divorce than that bitch of a whore, an' a pension, that if I live to see it, wont be worth a dogs dick, jack shit, that's what I got, jack shit."

"Well screw you asshole, you can take the badge an' stick where it hurts, it's a bum rap an' I'm not takin' it, I've got enough pieces of shit in me to walk out of here on a Ripper's discharge certificate, so I'm walkin' on my own two feet you hear, departments all gone to shit anyway now, corporate this, corporate fucking that, up yours, ya here me, up yours"

Ex detective, retired, Nordskov through his badge on the desk & walked out of Sharapov's shity little office, out on to the street, walked a couple of blocks to the Forlorn Hope, ordered a whisky, ordered another, took the bottle & got drunk.