If an SI:7 Operative wrote a memoir... It might go something like this...
My name is Lara Quinn and I work for Stormwind Intelligence. Well… Not officially… I suppose that’s a nice way of saying that if I screw up in the field, there’s nothing linking me to the agency and no chance of embarrassing the people who pay me. I know what you’re thinking… Lara, why in Light’s name would you want to work for an agency that’s going to let you rot in a dungeon somewhere and deny you exist while your captors pull your fingernails out one by one? Well what can I say? I’d be lying if I told you I didn’t enjoy the independence and hell… I’ve seen just about every part of Azeroth in my time with the agency.
When I was recruited, a man explained it like this: Our failures are known, but not our successes. If you’re looking for glory, SI:7 is not for you. You can make a lot of gold in your career, but most operatives never live long enough to enjoy it and even if they do, you don’t hear much about anyone being happily retired SI:7. Those who do make it to retirement usually have a drinking problem, more than a few scars to show for their service and usually suffer from paranoia. You can forget about marriage and kids, because you're not allowed to let anyone get that close and friends… Well the first thing any good operative learns is never to trust anyone.
So why do I do it? Well… In order to explain that, I should tell you that I happen to fit the profile for the perfect operative. I grew up in Grand Hamlet, the only daughter of a disabled first war veteran and a seamstress. My father had a drinking problem and blamed the world around him for the loss of his left arm, though he still threw a pretty good right and more than once, he took to beating my mother and I. My mother, Light bless her--she still loved him and every time he’d sober up and tell her how sorry he was, she’d forgive him and act as though nothing had happened.
I still remember the first time I thought it was a good idea to get between them during one of their fights. He’d been drinking all day at the Scarlet Raven and my mother didn’t have supper ready when he came through the door, so he knocked out two of her teeth. I was eleven at the time and I grabbed the closest thing to a weapon I could find—a broom. Needless to say, even a one-armed soldier didn’t have much trouble disarming an eleven year-old… When I finally woke up, it was at our closest neighbor’s cottage with four broken ribs, a broken jaw and to top it all off, I couldn’t see out of my right eye.
When you have all the trust beat out of you at such an early age, you begin to develop survival skills that most people lack. I learned to detach myself from emotions and when the time came for me to leave my family, I didn't look back. Dad drank himself to death at the age of forty-two and I lied about my age to join the Stormwind Army at sixteen. It seemed like an excellent idea at the time and it got me the hell out of Duskwood. Looking back, my reasons were about as misguided as I was. After my father nearly killed me, I made a promise to myself that I’d never be in another situation where I was unable to defend myself and let me tell you… Stormwind has some of the finest combat masters in all of Azeroth so by the time I was seventeen, I was pretty damn good with both my fists and a blade. I wasn’t as big or as strong as a lot of the others, but what I lacked in size, I made up for in stubborn will and a desire to learn as much as I possibly could.