A Separate Society: Into The Night

[Mikael Sisko]

Into The Night

Alex is lost. His perfect world is crumbling around him, and his 1st world problems are too much for his frail ego to handle. In his anger, he separates himself from the path he's walked these last 18 years of his life, and delves deep into what popular culture has so adequately named the Underworld: Drugs, Sex, Alcohol. What starts as a teenager's rebellion against his parent's divorce takes a drastic turn for the worst as he witnesses the execution style murder of another, at hands sworn to serve and protect.
Alex is deemed a risk; too young and scared to actually keep his mouth shut if the wrong people were to find out that he was a witness. The McNamara family leaves no loose ends.

Themes: Murder, Thriller, Drug Use, Adult Themes, Mob-Style Organization, Dystopian Themes, Dark Themes.

I'm looking for someone at the advanced level or better for this play. Character Sheet will be required.​

Alexander Gabriel Gray
eighteen /\ Brown Hair - Green Eyes /\ 165lbs​

Personality:
-- The Innocent --
Alexander is lost. His life is a struggle between the inability to deal with stressors and change, and the inability to simply accept that there are some things he cannot control. He is known for feats of level headedness and calm rationality, and has a reputation for being a 'golden child'. He's top of his class in grades, from a rich family, and though he himself will admit he has everything he could ever need, life is empty and unrewarding. A former scout, a former prep child. Alexander Gray simply cannot handle life at seventeen, and when his support system: his family and his friends, drop out from beneath him… He's determined. He's lived a life with the idea that he can rise to new heights, an idea planted in his head by his parents. He's angry. Their refusal to reconcile their differences is one that has set Alexander on a path to not only stop his upward momentum in life, but to free fall into a steep and self-destructive descent into the world of drugs, sex, and alcohol. This is his beginning. This is where the descent into the darker world of sex, drugs, and alcohol will begin, and with all things new and exciting, he will become obsessive over it, and we will watch it change him.

Appearance:
-- The Pretty Boy -–
We all know the type. Slender, athletic, with the body of a dancer. He stands six foot even, with a medium build and a handsome face. Brown, almost black, waves of hair dress his head at medium length. His face is clean shaven, youthful in appearance. He commonly wears a silver cross around his neck which he keeps tucked between black polo shirt and white under shirt. His skin is clean, no tattoos, no scars. His hands are soft, and his body shows more use to a life of luxury, than hardship. He has callouses on his fingers and hands from holding a football, or a baseball bat, and the telling rough patches on his thumbs from video game controllers.

Background:
Anthony Gray is a laywer
Savannah Gray is a oncologist.

Alexander is an only child of a rather well to do household. His life, until recently, has been the envy of false friends and classmates alike. Alexander's parents, as though to make up for their choice to focus on their careers instead of their son, bought him anything he ever asked for, and supplied him with enough 'professional' parenting to care for his every need. He grew up having not having to do chores, leaving him capable of fulfilling his every whim and desire at a moment's notice. But when he turned seventeen, that world which he had build around him was suddenly rocked for the first time in his life. His father slept around, contracted a disease, and now both parents are struggling to deal with the reality of infidelity and the mortality that suddenly is pressed upon them, forgetting their son in the process. His once peaceful home is now a battle ground of accusations, passive aggressive wars of intrigue and manipulation, leaving Alex alone to deal with the splitting of his parents, and the knowledge that not just one, but both are infected with HIV. He's without a support system. Alone for the first time in his young life. At night he cries alone, reaching out for hands that would never reach back to him… he's just searching for something to fill the hole left in his torn and broken world.

Other:
--The Changeling--
Alexander's character is about change. He's a good spirited, innocent, optimistic idealist who will quickly learn that life isn't as rose colored as he was brought up to believe. He is in for some hard learned lessons, and a hard fall from his perch on high. This will be the time of his life that forever changes him. That time of life where he delves into sin and forsakes all that he knows and cares about, in attempt to forge the man that is to be. He is a lost soul.

Alexander Gabriel Gray
eighteen /\ Brown Hair - Green Eyes /\ 165lbs


And I, I will remember how to fly
Unlock the heavens in my mind
Follow my love back
through the same secret door​

Gabe floated on currents of mellow piano in this world of darkness and shadow. Like a dream, his body felt weightless, rising and falling against the currents of melody, the ebb and flow born of an artistic soul translated into waves of energy, as though effused through flesh, copied and digitally recorded, downloaded and played through ear buds. The soul of the artist, transcending the physical, escaping the confines of the metaphysical, becoming energy to be consumed, and utterly destroyed in a moment that breeds angst and sorrow. The combination of soul and music draw a hot tear from Alexander's soul, painfully wrenched from a bleeding, broken heart. His right hand clenched as he felt the thing trail down the slope of his face, like the trail of Sarah's fingertips only hours before, as she had traced another that had previously blazed the trail.

Sleeps was an elusive poultice for this wound. It came only in brief spurts, only to be shattered by the death of the music floating through the room as the track reset itself to play again, or the vibrant hum of the cellphone as another message received into the damned thing. Another message of false concern and faux friendship from people who had, sent by one who, at one time been the light in a vibrant and beautiful world of color and laughter. A world unsustainable by definition, because of its purity and perfection. Such things simply didn't exist here: not when heaven revealed itself to be purgatory.

He rose from his bed, giving up on sleep, feeling suddenly as trapped and confined here in the darkness of his bedroom, as he did in the darkness of this new world. The pain made sitting still unbearable, as was the moisture on his face, after the initial heat of the tear faded, and the salt was left to eat away at the skin, causing the tear's path to itch until wiped away. He licked it from his fingertips, as he stuffed his wallet in his jacket pocket, plucked the keys to his car from the nightstand beside his bed, and emerged into the hall for the first time since his parents 'talked' with him.

Talk was the premise they used to lure him into the den so that he could witness their latest squabble over all the wrongs and crimes that went on in a world laded with mistrust, money, and a strict dispassionate stance against the one to whom you promised to love, cherish and honor until death separated you. The irony of it was the voice that answered that particular question often was born of the same fairytale innocence as the voice that gave rise to the refusal to belief that Santa Claus is just a myth, that unicorns truly exist, or that one can truly live a peaceful and perfect life. Novel ideas that sell books, but have no truth or power to the real world.
It is all a lie.

From the hallway, Gabriel could see the den's light still burn, and as he passed, he could see his father sitting up, haggard, with a crop of mused hair wild upon his head. The canned laughter of Nick-At-Night re-runs softly in the background as his father's worn eyes looked up to meet his as in passing, and Gabriel froze in that stare. There was pity flowing between both, and in both pairs of eyes, new tears moistened the colors of darkened iris, as the light of the world seemed to effuse into the flickering of the Cosby show in the dim light of a desk lamp.

"Where you going Gabe?"

Alexander shrugged, turning himself to face his father, squaring himself in the doorway, but distracting his gaze from the other and onto the television burning in the background. Somehow, it hurt to look at him, to know how much love lie in the balance. How much love was to die, to perish as the world transcended from light to shadow? How much respect would fall victim to the crumbling of the sky? Did his father understand that love died in the way of stars, leaving nothing behind but a black void that engulfed everything… Did his father understand just how utterly destructive this was all going to be? Did he truly care?

"Out," Alexander replied, "I need to clear my head."

"Its three in the morning? Where are you going to go," His father returned, and Alexander had to control himself in a moment of flaming anger and red-hot irritation. He wanted to scream, to spit , to accuse him of simply not caring. It was easier to blame him, than to emphasize, easier to credit him with the destruction of his world than to offer understanding. Alexander wanted to cruse this man the devil, to hang him for his sins against him, not hug him and tell him everything would be fine, that it was ok that he and his mother were splitting up. He wanted to his father to know just how much it hurt, to put into all to real terms the effect of divorce on children…
Alex didn't answer, nor did he hesitate a step as he walked out of the house, in spite of his father's insistence that he come back and talk. He just returned the music to his mind, drowned himself in the flowing melodies and painful falls of her voice, as he slid back behind the driver's seat of the car. The symphony of strings, the pull of his torn soul against the turbulent winds of the oncoming storm fueled Alexander's rebellion as he turned the car around in the drive, and left his father standing in the doorway in his robe and pajamas.

He watched as the figure disappeared in the rearview, as the black Camero sped down the quiet subdivision streets. Alexander… once Gabriel… felt the tears burn in the back of his eyes as the isolation of the pre-dawn morning sank in on him, and he realized that, upon leaving home, he had no place else to go. Oh yes, he did have friends, but none that he wished to talk to, none that, in the moment, he truly believed in. They are also similar, all so well defined in the roles and staunch design of the upper crust of society, with their cold detachment to anything that didn't bolster their popularity, their ambitions, their own greed. Children who attended private college prep schools, who wore embroidered crests upon their breasts like some fucking badge of honor to hold up in the faces of the populace as they looked down their noses at them. Children like him…. Who knew nothing of the truth of the world, but only lived above it, elevated by money and status as the sons or daughters of the rich. It was a life that blossomed in his heart and soul: a red rose upon a perceived thorn-less stem.

Until one of the hidden thorns tore the flesh of his palm.

+ + + +
​

Alexander watched the exchange between the young and the counter clerk over the burrito for the safety of the fountain machine, watching with interest the change laid upon the counter, counted out so meticulously, as though the shiny coins actually meant something to people, almost surprised when the burrito was pushed aside, the transaction completed in cents instead of bills. Of course he understood the value of coins: but understanding in the same sense that he understood the significance of Liberty Bell, Prohibition, or the First Amendment: it was all academic, no hard life lessons to bring into perfect clarity. Such as simple thing, but never explored.

Alexander paid of his drink, a burrito he selected out of curiosity, and the gifted burrito with the swipe of a debit card and no questions asked. He held the cup in one hand, as he picked up the burrito, setting to unwrap it as he existed the store, to catch site of Ian crossing the parking lot under the dim glow of the pumping station's fluorescents. Alexander found himself curious about this man, but he felt sure that it was an unwelcome curiosity. Nobody liked to be iconized, nobody liked to be studied. Even as beast. But Alexander's eyes followed as the man walked beyond the halo of gas station lights, and was lost to the darkness of this predawn morning, just as he took his first bite of the burrito.

And promptly spit it on the ground.

The thing was vile. A mixture of texture and flavors that tasted similar to beef and beans, but with a quality about them both that screamed the question of authenticity. A mystery meat, wrapped in an old, stale, heated tortilla, lathered in a bean paste… he dared not read the back of the package to see what exactly it was he ate, but instead, dumped the thing in the trash and washed his mouth with a long drag off the soda. He started walking, leaving the black Camero sitting in the parking spot of the store, as he crossed the parking lot to the street sidewalk, looking the area he was in over as though some new and exotic setting. The houses were different than his, with chipped paint, dilapidation and age showing on their surfaces, in the curtain-less, often pane-less windows that looked like dark eyes in the pre-dawn gray. Gaping maws of open doors standing foreboding in the darkness, as Alexander pressed into the street, feeling the world around him taking shape to the bleakness and pain stemming forward from his lost soul, and yet feeling somewhat insignificant amongst it all, as though the problems that shattered and threatened to topple his world were pale in comparison with this world: where death and decay hang themselves from the walls like floral paper, and chipped paint.

Vine covered everything, pulling down chain-link fence, climbing up the wooden boards of others, as two streets intersected, and as his vision again crossed Ian's back, he suddenly remembered the man. He hadn't intended to follow, hadn't meant to intrude on the other's privacy, as in truth as soon as the lights of the station had left him, he had forgotten his beleaguered, momentary obsession, but how it must look. And now he was joined by others, or joining others… … all in similar appearance, all with the same weight to them, as though marked by this place in some manner that Alexander couldn't quite identify. They appeared nothing alike: the two women both attractive, but one more notably malnourished appearing than the others, more flamboyantly dressed woman. Disheveled appearances, ragged clothes… Alex didn't know what he had stumbled upon, but he was sure that it was exactly what his parents had spent his life time warning him about. It caused anxiety, it cased his heart to quicken, and his stomach to churn as he pulled his leather coat up around him tighter, lowered his head to try to look inconspicuous, understanding that all attempts to do so only made him stand out. Yet he knew no other way to behave. He leveled his stare to the cement of the sidewalk, tucked his hands into the pockets of his coat, and pretended to pay them little mind as he turned down their street.

He had no idea why he chose to walk down their street, instead of continuing down the crossing one. His mind was alive with the implications of his choice, forgetting about his depression, releasing the thoughts of his burden in light of this new occurrence, as he tried desperately to understand his own actions. Surely the chances of being noticed were less on the intersecting street: had he just continued forward, or had he even had sense to stay on the other side of the street from the gathering. His actions were too reckless… what did he want? To be noticed? For what?? They'd likely kill him, take the money out of his pockets… beat him and leave him in the bed of dying flowers and broken bottles, with a mouth full of blood…

And yet the music continued to play in his mind, as much as through the earbuds stuck in his ears…

Turn out the lights
Feed the fire
Till my soul breathe free… ​

 

[neptune]

Salina Maestas

Salina Maestas || Eighteen

Personality:
|| The Entrepreneur ||
Salina is bold and brash, often seen as insensitive and only out for herself, she has the social skills to talk herself in and out of any situation. A hustler from a young age, Salina learned how to survive and provide for herself on the streets, and defiantly clings to her own perception of success. Selling has become an integral part of who she is, and dropping out of the lifestyle would mean losing part of herself.

Appearance:
Salina is 5'7" tall and has a slightly boyish figure. Half Cuban, she has dark brown eyes and matching brown hair that she likes to wear up in a pony tail, or dye different colors. She's a minimalist when it comes to make up, not having the time or the energy to fuss with her face, but her mother always told her that a little mascara never hurt anyone and she subscribes to the same philosophy. Her style of dress is mostly casual, although she always has gold hoops in her ears and a watch on her wrist.

Background:
Salina is the middle of three children and likes it that way. Her older brother, Dominic, taught her how to hustle and sell at night while their mother was away at work. Salina's father is out of the picture, but comes back in every once in a while to cause chaos and drama, much to her step-father's dismay. She has a much younger half sister that she helps to take care of from time to time when she isn't busy with other things. Together, the family shares a cramped, two bedroom apartment in the heart of the city. It's a little run down, but it's better than nothing.

​

---

The wailing sound of sirens blared in the distance, flashing across doors and windows as police and fire raced through the city. In a quiet community, it might have been something to gawk at, to gossip about, but Salina just carried on counting money. It was always sad when someone got shot in the neighborhood, but that was life, and people moved on. On the streets, life expectancy was low where crime was high, but most people the young girl knew tried to make the most out of their time. Banding another stack, Salina set the cash off to the side and began again, her mind alone with the thought that she too was only making the best of a bad situation.

Quickly, her fingers moved over crumpled mounds of bills, smoothing out the green and neatly making piles to be counted a moment later. It was the mindless part of the job, and it would have been much easier if it wasn't for the man in the corner with the glock. Every so often, Salina picked her eyes up and looked across the room toward Marco, a friend of a friend of her brother's, a man the boss trusted to run game and not cheat anyone on top. Salina had never liked him, and with the cold, winter wind drafting through the house, she liked him even less.

"Can I put my coat on?" she asked, fingers still moving, mind still counting as she reached for a rubber band to hang around her wrist.

Sucking his teeth, Marco raised an eyebrow. "Why you gotta ask me stupid questions?" He looked disgusted and waved his gun-hand through the air, not afraid of the implications.

"It's fucking cold," Salina complained, her skin prickled with goosebumps as she sat on the floor in her underwear. The first couple times, the process had been degrading, but it had become routine over the last five years. Winters were always tough, though.

"You ain't here to be warm," Marco snapped back, "you're here because of Dom to count and sell."

Another thousand counted, and just a few spare bills left. The house had done well for itself that day—it was a good thing the neighborhood was so sick. "Don't you trust me yet?" she asked, conversational as a shiver rolled over her skin. For a moment, she pressed her cold nose to her shoulder, just trying to generate a little warmth as the rest of the bills were straightened and collected. The boss was sure to be pleased, but Salina was just ready to get dressed.

Marco laughed deeply, the sound coming from his chest and the wide smile that spread across his face almost made him look handsome. To most women, he was something to look at, someone to put up with because of his income and rumors of a big dick inspired wild stories. Salina had never been convinced, had never been tempted and always wanted to spend as little time with him as possible. "Shit, I do, but this is my job," he answered. "Don't make things hard for me."

Rolling her eyes, Salina tossed the rolled and counted cash onto mattress in the corner. It was never something she would have slept on, let alone touched with her bare hands, but it made for a decent desk. "You better pay me before the sun comes up then," she said and finally stood. Her bony knees aches from kneeling for the last hour, giving a creak as she straightened back out. Quickly, she reached for her clothes, knowing that Marco wasn't bold enough to try and pat her down.

"You better watch that slick mouth," he threatened, still brandishing the gun around like it was a toy.

Salina replied with a roll of her eyes as she pulled a pair of black jeans over her angular hips. Modesty wasn't something that she bothered with around Marco anymore, and despite the way his eyes bored into her, she ignored him. It only took a few more seconds to get fully dressed and she shoved her feet into her sneakers before grabbing her coat and letting herself out of the room. Marco would leave soon, she told herself, leave and return with a suitable cut and the cycle would continue.

The rest of the house was just as cold as the bedroom, but a little more dilapidated. There were few lights in the place, but what little shine was left illuminated the peeling paint on the walls, and the cracked floorboards, littered with bits of trash and the occasional glass pipe. None of it phased her anymore, and Salina had seen more messes in her young life than normal people twice her age. Digging her hands into the pockets of her black coat, Salina found a pack of cigarettes and a bit of product that had yet to be sold. She made good numbers; people tended not to bitch.

Out in the living room, devoid of furniture apart from an old couch, a few guys were hanging around with their girls, a nervous John was being lead to the back of the house and a couple were smoking in the corner. At the center of it all was Cruz, and Salina locked eyes with the older man before he turned back toward the partially shattered window. The glass still held, but the chill was real.

"You better get out there," Cruz said, a cigarette grasped between his thumb and index finger like a joint. His dark eyes had zeroed in on someone coming up the block, so out of place that Salina had to wonder if it was some kind of joke, or if he was lost. That leather coat said it all, that he was from a better part of town, probably had parents who cared about him, went to a private school and took ski trips. Simultaneously, Salina and Cruz scoffed.

"And do what?" she asked, lighting her own cigarette. "He doesn't want our shit."

Another round of sirens blared through the neighborhood and Cruz gave her a hard shove toward the door. "You never know until you ask."

Scowling, Salina knew better than to retaliate and a shove was nothing compared to the backhand he'd given her a few months before. That bruise was faded now, but the pain was etched into her soul like so many other things gone wrong. Silently, Salina took another drag on her cigarette before exiting the house.

As she approached the street, her steps were casual. She saw familiar faces, people who looked ready to rush over and trade whatever they had in her pocket for the few minutes of heaven she had been trusted with. Drugs were a hard game, but selling rock was better than selling pieces of herself.

"Hey," she called out, looking directly at that fresh face, unmarred by acne or any kind of struggle. "You wanna party?" She smiled at him and wiggled her fingers in her pocket, the outline of her nails clear against the lining.