Not knowing his place of birth, Francis always thought of Chicago as his home. Though he never properly had what came with a home, family.
His parents having fled South Zagoria while he was only about five, he never knew the rest of his family or his origins very well. Being brought up under the impression he was an only child he felt trapped. His father turned into a alcoholic, and his mother to the needle in a feeble attempt to try and cope with the changes of a new land. The “Land of Freedom” was not all it was cracked up to be. It seemed his father never stopped, where at least his mother would try to hide her addiction. She did everything for Francis, even when she had to take the beatings from his father when he came home exceptionally drunk. Though when she wasn’t always there in time. Francis knew when she gouched. She was never seen around those times.
He never knew a true family growing up.
One day his father came home extraordinarily drunker than usual. This night it wasn’t going to be just a beating. His mother knew the same. Trying to hide in his room with young Francis after grabbing a kitchen knife she locked them both in. This wasn’t enough to stop him, making him only angrier, his father was eventually broke down the door. Seeing his wife cowering with a knife, it just set him off even more. He slapped the knife from her trembling hands. Striking her across the cheek next, and not letting up, she laid unconscious on the floor. His father picked up the kitchen knife from the floor and took it to Francis’ throat, cutting just enough for blood to start collecting on the cold steel. Enough to incapacitate Francis but not enough to kill him…
His mother on the floor unconscious and Francis clutching at his neck to try and prevent further blood loss, his father clenched the knife harder, turning to his wife's limp body. He plunged it into her thigh, the pain brought her to life again, she tried to fight, but he continued to overpower her eventually tormenting her more, until she she was battered and bruised, barely conscious. Bent over his wife's barely breathing body Francis’ father raped her right in front of him. A kid unable to stop any of it was forced to watch as his father finish her off.
His dad took the land line before he left. Dialing 9-1-1 and tossing the phone in the pool of Francis’ blood that's collected by his hunched seven year old body.
Francis never tried to re adapt after that. His parents having come into the US illegally CPS were never able to find his blood relatives. No matter how many foster homes or therapists tried to help him. He couldn’t get the images from that night out of his mind. With a scar across his neck to prove it wasn’t just a dream he escaped his current foster only to end up on the streets.
His search for his father dampened by the fact he needed money and was just a stupid kid in Chicago, forced him into less than savory work in a desperate attempt to earn something to help in his search. His jobs for these people got better over time, from a whore, to a killer. From petty gangs to mobsters, he learned quickly how to survive and thrive in a kill or be killed world he was stuck in.
A close informant gave Francis news he’d been waiting years to hear. His father's location new name, new family, everything. The day was here when Francis knew he’d have to leave his new “life” behind after this last “job”. He collected his belongings tucking his signature 1911 into his his waistband heading out the door. Hot wiring a car a few blocks from his place he begins the long drive to the North of Ontario Canada. When he’d run out of gas he'd just jack another car and continue his trip.
When he got the the house he was horrified seeing kids toys in the yard of a nice suburban home. It was winter and the snow had just begun to fall as he sat in the car looking at his father's house. He took his gun out from the glove compartment, his suppressor from his inside pocket of his jacket, screwing them together he made a slow walk to the front door. He had his bag of equipment slung over his shoulder when he got to the front door, banging the butt of the pistol against the door three times. When the door opened he immediately recognized the face of his mother's killer. Francis punched his father with the suppressor of his gun breaking his nose.
With a loud thud his father crumbled to the ground in pain. Running to see what happened was a young boy, probably no older than 8. Francis hesitated seeing him, but rage clouded his morals. He rounded up his father's new family, tying them to chairs and beating them, before executing every last one of them in front of his sniveling, sobbing father.
As he put the gun to his father's head his father through sobbed a name through his broken teeth.
“I'm sorry Marika…”
Looking down at his father puzzled now, he puts the the suppressor attached to the pistol under his chin to raise his fathers head to meet each others eyes.
“Another whore who's life you ruined?” Francis spat.
His father still sniffling through a beaten and bloodied face, Francis could barely make out the words “Home…Chernarus." "Myshkino." "Marika." "...forgive me...”
Not wanting to hear another word Francis shoot his father, finally killing him.
Unsure of what it all meant Francis decided to he needed to look into his father's last words.