König gazes at the grimy windows letting wintery light filter into his office, weak and watery rays barely touching his desk, baby blue orbs faintly unfocused. Ostensibly he’s in here doing paperwork, but the reality of it is somewhat different. He's never been any good at box ticking, infinitely preferring action above and beyond tedious reports. When he was a child, he frequently received raps on the knuckles from his teachers for day dreaming, watching little birds building nests in the trees around the school yard, or a squirrel collecting shining acorns to store away. It was always a shock, the sharp pain of a ruler slapped against his unclenched hands.

He was teased for being himself, so König hid that wistful quality away under layers of mercurial violence. Yet still, he finds nature superior in every conceivable sense. The silence of being alone with his thoughts is the only peace he's ever really known, so much of his life devoted to conflict and maiming.

Often misunderstood, his height and breadth alone paint a ruthless portrait of a man spoiling for a fight. More times than he can count on two broad hands, König has ended up in bar brawls purely because he was the biggest in the room and someone wanted to test their metal. Not that he doesn't enjoy it, the squaring up, blood staining his teeth from a punch or two, the scent of iron drying on his skin when he leaves them pathetically unconscious. It has its place, as everything does. The rush he gets from inflicting pain on an unworthy foe is an addiction long since accepted as part of his personality. König still remembers the first time he felt bones cracking beneath his punch. Satisfying in the extreme, but not in the same way a clear autumn sky is. Cool air in his lungs and utter quietness is preferable.

Perhaps he should have led a simple life. Though trouble seems to find him at every opportunity, scenting him as a bloodhound would in even the most remote corners of the world . Also he's very good at killing, it's earned him respect, food on the table for his Oma and several concealed bank accounts stuffed with dirty money. She never has to suffer again through the winter, though he rarely visits home to see her these days. Mainly because there is always infernal paperwork to do.

The rank of Colonel was hard won. Not through Jagdkommando, which honestly would have been a more noble way of making a living. But why should he serve countryman that never gifted him an ounce of charity. It was him stepping up to be the man of the house aged eight when his drunk of a father never returned home one day. His labour and toil that kept the heating on in the deadest of winters in his little mountain town. Frost inside of the window panes while others his age sung carols and ate soft sugary cookies. König grew up very fast, before his height caught up with his bulk. Supported the family to the detriment of study. No kindness for their threadbare family was offered by his school mates, while his mother sobbed ice laden tears of grief and couldn’t work.

While König is scrutinising the tiny font in the corner of one briefing note, irrationally annoyed by the fact the incorrect date has been written next to it, there's a knock at the door.

Horangi pokes his head around it, a huge and smug grin plastered across his face. Konig blinks lazily in response, not in any frame of mind for another distraction.

"What?" He grunts, while Horangi stands there beaming, as if he's won some sort of lottery and is about to inform König of the prize.

"Your new secretary is here...you lucky fucker."

König's eyebrow rises, offset against his dower expression.

"I have told them one million times." He snaps, clambering laboriously to his feet, aching from sitting still for an hour or more. "I do not need one."

"Too late, she's already on base. Be nice to her eh?! Break the habit of a lifetime Colonel."

The reality is that König does need a secretary, badly. Drowning in administrative tasks leaves him sullen because he's not able to get out in the thick of it.