All of this — the house in the suburbs, the family, the real estate license, the barbecues and dinner parties, the strip mall hair salon and full grocery cart — it's a construct. You're not a happily married mother of two children under six: you're a weapon.
You've seen the video, seen your own face, heard your own voice explain the reality of this to your future self. You've seen your signature on the contract, you've seen the training logs, the fitness reports, the swiss-cheese paper targets, the final orders.
No more bourgeois fucking around, Foxtrot: it's time to do your duty.