Falling Into the Dark

I

Insanity

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Original poster
"Leave me alone!" Lysander snapped, glaring at the person talking to him. They were at their base, that was supposed to be a safe place but he was starting to feel like an animal trapped in a corner, "They're painkillers. I'm taking painkillers because I'm in pain. I'm in pain because I got hurt. You remember that mission? The one where Marcus died? So yes, I have been popping a lot of pills lately. That doesn't mean that I'm addicted."


Just because it didn't mean it didn't mean that it wasn't true. He was upset. He missed Marcus and the pills made him feel numb and that felt good. It was nice. He didn't want that taken away from him. Plus, he was still going through a little bit of pain. He was still healing a bit. He had broken some ribs and. . . that was why he had been given the pain pills in the first place so shouldn't he be allowed to use them?


He just hoped that none of his teammates would be able to read through his lies. He was most worried about the grifter since it was his job to lie--that probably made it more obvious.

He was scared of where he was going but. . . he didn't want the pills to be taken away.

[Cursing is fine.
Romance is fine but fade for explicit.
Characters 18+
Lysander is the thief.
Marcus was the hacker.
Join as the grifter (con), leader, medic, or hitter (muscle)
Check out the OOC thread so we can talk plot.
That's all, for now]
 
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"Pills? Really Lysander? Is that the only supplemental decision you can make to heal nothing but your whining?" Rife closed the book he was just reading on dietary nutrition and placed it on a table beside him. He stood from where he was sitting and meandered his way to Lysander hinting a coy smile. "Time for a lesson sir." Rife placed his hands behind his back and stared Lysander directly in his eyes. Everyone on the team knew what was coming next, once the hands were behind the back, that was it, Rife was going to rant and everyone was going to listen!

"Funny thing about pain Lysander, emotional or physical, is that it is always curable. You know, reading up on the anatomy and the healing powers of nature as your team medic, AKA, the ones keeping most of you alive, I have learned that prescription drugs, pills, speed, cocaine, marijuana, ecstasy, this, that, or the other thing, really aren't quite necessary. They are merely ways to shelter the deeper pain awaiting inside, and if you really think about it will only make it worse in the long run because your body becomes dependent on this psychosis. So you know what I learned from all my studying and researching? Simple things such as a cup of herbal tea or a hearty serving of vegetables and spices REALLY works as a natural remedy for wounds and pains. And oh yes, they also work quite well on oh...I don't know..what's that word I just hate to say again? Oh...WHINING."

Rife now begins pacing around Lysander trying to contain his frustration.

"And before you even MUTTER who's fault it was that Marcus passed, remember what our best interest is as a collective unit, and remember the man trying to keep everyone alive and especially sane is. In my honest opinion, Marcus was reckless, I don't think there was much that could have been done in our situation to help that Lysander. What do you think? Am I a no good liar who can't save everyone? Or maybe an optimist who plays the game of reality?"

He now puts his hands back to his sides and takes a deep breath. "There, hands are now back in a neutral position, breath has been taken, heart rate normal, and now I am ready to hear more of your pointless whining." With a smile, Rife awaits retaliation to his lecture and prepares to see if Lysander has gone insane or if he still remembers the reason why they were all in such a mess to begin with.
 
Lysander clenched and unclenched his fists, annoyed. It wasn't like he was very strong-- he was built to bend and flip, not to attack. He didn't really have a response for the medic. Rife had always been good with words. . . Lysander was too impulsive to be.
"You're the one who gave me the pills in the first place," He grumbled, pulling out the bottle and swallowing a pill dry. He didn't want to have to deal with this sober, "And it's not pointless whining! I didn't even start this argument. And just because Marcus was reckless doesn't mean that he deserved to die! You--you're such a sadist! And a jerk. And I hate you."

He didn't mean any of that, of course. He was just. . . mad and scared and freaking out.
 
Rife bellowed a small and playful laugh. He watched as Lysander chugged another pill and raised a frigid brow. "And do you know what kind of pills those are Lysander? You don't do you. They are simply sugar pills. Pure cane sugar straight from the roots of a sugar cane tree. I don't give you the strong stuff because one, you don't need it, two, I know you all to well, you'll be popping those like a handicapped child in a safety wrapping store. And three, you just proved me right that your pain wasn't as bad as you thought, and you just quite simply, like to whine. Speaking of wine, is there a bottle around somewhere? Because by the looks of it dearest friends, we are going to have nothing to celebrate, and might as well get drunk off our gluteus maximus's to see what kind of INGENIOUS plan we can hatch next. Any takers? Because remember folks, I am the one that has all the stress and the pressure, and yet here I stand, sane and as healthy as a wallflower just waiting to blossom when the next one of you gets most prominently injured."

Rife lets out a sigh and returns to the seat he was in once before. He picks up his book he was reading previously from the table top nearest him, eyes it briefly, then rolls his eyes and chucks it behind him. He was in no mood nor any correct mindset to read anymore, if anything, he wanted to be dead and in a book somewhere going down in history as one of the most idiotic doctors in history for ever having the willpower to help criminals to begin with.
 
Jay was walking in just in time to witness Lysander tell Rife that he hated him. Remaining in the doorway until Rife sat down, the leader walked in, announcing, "Good news, everyone!" He didn't really have good news, but he felt that if he didn't intervene, there would be a fight. After Marcus, that was the last thing they needed. "Don't kill me for bad timing, but it seems the higher ups want us to get drunk on our asses, because they sent us some wine. I'm not really in the mood to party, but if you guys start, I'll finish." He offered a good-natured smile. It was often that Jay had to play the role of mediator, and stop fights before they started, but he was more or less forced into it.

"Look," he sighed. "I know what happened to Marc has us all on edge, but is not getting us anywhere. I also don't think that he would like seeing us this way. Sure," he gestured towards Rife, "Marcus did some reckless things, but he was the best damn hacker I've worked, and that gets him some leeway. That being said, no more fighting." He ended sternly, setting down the bottle of wine on a small end table. Frowning, he took seat on the couch, not wanting to have to break up a fight.
 
"That's not fair, Jay, he's being a jerk," Lysander complained before glaring back at Rafe, "You gave me sugar pills? Did you ever think that the reason I was taking so many was because they weren't working and I needed to?! You're a psychopath! You don't trust anyone! We're your team. You're supposed to trust us. If you didn't think I would be able to handle the pills then you should have talked to me instead of doing what you always do and acting like you know everything about all of us! Acting like you always know best and that everyone else is an idiot. You probably think that Marcus deserves to die!"

Hey jerked his head to look at Jay, "You know what, Jay? I would love to get drunk because at least alcohol is better at treating my medical injuries than Rafe here is."
 
Sarai tugged a cigarette loose from the half empty box of Marlboros on the end table. She'd been cutting down to just three a day, one after each meal, since it was hard to break bones with a smoker's cough. She settled down on the old leather couch and fished around in her pocket for a lighter. There was nothing quite like a good smoke when she really needed it. The ashes dropped onto the cold concrete floor and fizzled out. When one had a bunch of impulsive young men trying to peacock their own immaturity, little spats like these weren't uncommon.

"You know, it's quite difficult to defend against an attack when you're shit-faced," she said flatly. "When I was in Helmand, my handler used to send bottles of liquor to my targets with a note from a lady friend. Once they were drunk, it was easy to strangle them until they choked to death on their own vomit."

As an added bonus, if she had a pillow on hand, it was quite simple to pass off such a hit as a result of getting too wasted. She rested her arm on the back of the couch.

"Instead of sitting around bickering like children, perhaps you could plan out the next mission better than the last one." She glanced pointedly at the freshly stitched gash on her abdomen. The last mission had been a disaster, both in the sense that Marcus died and the target had escaped (but not before one of his bodyguards that was not supposed to be there had gotten a good hit on her stomach). Such poor intelligence would have gotten her killed when she was in the field with Mossad, and she was lucky it hadn't killed her last time. Marcus hadn't been so lucky.
 
"Wrong place, wrong time, Sarai," Jay said, frowning. Sometimes Jay honestly felt like he was the only one in the team with a heart and feelings."We all got wounds," he winced slightly, remembering the gunshot wound in his shoulder. The bullet was gone, but Jay was sure that it would be painful for a week at least and leave a scar. Jay sighed, and stood up. "Look. That mission...it's my fault Marcus died. I am the leader, it was my plan, and I was the one who told him that we should get into the target's computer beforehand. I am the reason he was even there. Sure, Marcus should've left when I told him to, but I am responsible for his death. I heard from his family, who're convinced that he died in the middle of a gang war, that Marcus's funeral is in two days. We all will be there, got that. And tomorrow, me and whoever wants to go are gonna go find a new hacker. In a few days, we'll get started on trying again." Leaving it at that, he sank back down into the chair, sighing heavily. Not for the first time, he wondered if he really was suited to be leader anymore.
 
Sarai shrugged.
"There's never a wrong time for good advice." Everyone's patience was wearing thin, it seemed. She stubbed out her cigarette. The taste stung her mouth. She stood and stretched, listening to the cracks and groans of her tired joints. "Funeral or no funeral, our target, Ezra Holt, is still alive and very well. We need to move fast and take him out before he finds us. Men like that hold grudges, and they have a lot of money to hold them with. He won't forget that we managed to infiltrate his compound, and he's not going to let us forget it either." She pulled her heavy jacket over her shoulders and zipped it up. "I'm going out. Call me if you need me." She holstered her old 1983 Pistolet Makarova under the bulk of her jacket and strode out the door.
 
Rife's head was already pounding with the result argument from Lysander and now he has to deal with people pointing fingers and just wanting their damn wine. Maybe Rife spoke too soon about the alcohol. But he did have a plan, and he was going to pitch it to the group of misfits while it was still fresh in his noggin.

"A gang war Jay? CHRIST IN HARMONY! What is this, Grand Theft Automobiles?"

He face palmed and continued his talk.

"Anyway, I suppose I could be the usual sarcastic minx and say, HEY! Let's just use a search engine or a local service website to find us a hacker! But that would just be...what was it? Wrong place....and wrong time for humor. Oh wait, too late. The point is, we need to find one, and fast. Not just any hacker, but a hacker that also knows how to fight and defend him or herself without me having to trail them with a first aid bag every step they make, it would draw too much attention, and I need to make sure the rest of the team is tended to in a timely manner as well, not just babysitting a computer whiz. We need versatile, a jack-of-all-trades so to speak. Sarai's injury was very major, I couldn't save both her and Marcus now could I? I was just fast enough to stop the bleeding or else we would have lost two good people. Sometimes life is difficult as such everyone, you can't have your pi and the algorithm to how the universe works, too. You need to take the simpler equation and find a solution as fast as you can and let lost causes be lost causes. But the basis is to find a new member that doesn't need directions or a meat shield, we need someone that's a known cause to our efforts, someone that doesn't get lost in a battle or lose their focus. Someone that can actually hang with the rest of us and multi-task WELL!"

Rafe was thinking of other clever references to put towards this conversation.

"Kind of like the detail box on auction websites, if that makes any sense. We need all the info on the person and then we need that person shipped to us for an interview and looking over, and then we test their skills in a training regime, and finally we make them our slave and haze them into our team. There is no better plan than to consider MY plan."

Rafe smiles mulling over the many iconic historical quotes he has learned in both his medical field, and his battle training throughout the many odd jobs and special operations missions he has embarked with state ambassadors and troopers in the past. He was trying to pluck just the right one out of his mind to finish his tirade.

"Someone once said.....there isn't a greater man, than the better man. And we need the better man. Someone that is technically even better than us in all categories, a true wizard of the craft. That would be genuine thinking! As for the person that said that quote I mentioned, it was me, and it was...just now. Sorry, I couldn't think of any motivational or inspirational nonsense at that very moment. Blame it on the wine."

And with that, Rafe grabs a glass, and pours a tall portion of wine into it. He sips the glass savoring the flavor and completely takes in the catatonic values and the bittersweet mixture of nauseating stress and alcohol together in bliss. He rests his eyes a moment.

"Ahhh....there's no better medicine."

He waits for what the group has to say from his idea and enjoys his moment of silence, which almost always follows after one of his long tirades.
 
"I might know someone that may or may not have a particular set of skills like or similar to the ones you just mentioned," Alice said, lounging in the doorway, staring absent-mindedly at the frame, "But he or she won't work for just anyone, you know." Unlike the rest of the team, Alice didn't smart from the hole that Marcus had left in the team or bear wounds from the battle in the compound, either. She was a liar, a con, a swindler, and could persuade a poor man out of his last penny, but she didn't have to lie if she were forced to say how she felt about the outcome. Her own part in the mission was over soon after it started. She had gotten them in the building with no small amount of effort on her silver tongue and a set of keys obtained from an.....overly-friendly.....front guard. Then provided a decent distraction for the team when they bolted. Alice wasn't very suprised or shocked when Lysander gave her the news, but she removed herself from the team's picture to avoid sparking a flame of anger or hate at her non-responsive behaviour.
 
Rife put down his wine glass and looked over at Alice who just so elegantly entered the scene. He felt like an innocent mouse gorging itself as a charming serpent snuck its way in to trick the bloated mouse into being pray. Rife never really trusted Alice, he never quite knew whether she was telling the truth or not, or if one day she'd leave them all stranded to take the riches of a mission for herself and run off with them without hesitation. But really, with no other leads, no other candidates to help keep their team solid, what other choice did any of them have?

"How can we trust YOU again darling? You're worse than a stand up comedian telling fake stories after running out of their own material just to get attention. After all, you can't do much but talk, and most of what you say is a lie, that's your job isn't it sweetie? Looking pretty and lying like a hooker on 4th?"

Rife smirked at his own snide remark. It was a rhetorical question ofcourse, but Rife was one of the few people in the world she could never trick or swindle, he was too much of a smartass and too intelligent to fall for it. But who was he kidding, she was their last chance for anyone even slightly significant to help them out with their little predicament.

"That was a joke Alice. Now...I'm all for this person of yours. As long as Jay is ok with the selection, since he is our ever so FEARLESS leader.."

The sarcasm in Rife's voice was redefining bull crap.
 
Sarai hadn't exactly gone very far. How could she? The base was in the ass end of nowhere. There was an assortment of shipping crates and old oil drums next to the tiny warehouse the team called the armory. Sarai settled on the lip of an empty oil drum, ignoring the stench of must and gasoline. This was the only area on base that could get a cell signal without a booster. She pulled her cell out of her pocket and dialed the number she knew by heart. The line rang once before a man picked up on the other end.

"Hello?" The voice spoke in the heavy drawl of Dargwa, so different than her native Hebrew. Her tongue still stumbled a bit on the uptake.

"Hello, Bulat. Did you miss me?"

Bulat was an arms dealer and showman who had a particular weakness for fast cars and prostitutes-- the latter had been the occasion for their first meeting. Sarai had proceeded to tie him to his own bed and chop off fingers until he told her where he was keeping the ICBM missiles aimed at Israel. He had three fingers on his left hand because of it. From that point on, she'd used Bulat to keep an eye on the underground for her (willing or unwilling, Bulat always delivered). She could hear a thick swallow on the other end. The pulsing bass told her he was probably in one of his favorite haunts: the strip clubs on the Dagestinian-Russian border. She smiled to herself.

"Does your wife know you're out blowing money on strippers?"

"What do you want?" Bulat tried to sound imposing, but his voice trembled. He always gave in, with a little nudge in the right direction.

"I need to know where Ezra Holt is." Bulat snorted.

"I thought you killed him. Have your skills gotten dull?"

"Perhaps," she acknowledged, "But I can still very easily find you, my friend. And this time I won't just limit my shears to fingers." Bulat paused for a moment, weighing his options. He only had two. Cooperate, or find his son's tongue in a take-out box on his doorstep.

"Fine, but this better not get back to me."

"Does it ever?" she said smoothly.

"Holt has property and a yacht in Miami. He's supposed to be staying there for two months while a shipment--"

"A shipment of what?"

"Who knows. While a shipment is delivered to his 'friend's' house in Monte Video." Sarai chewed her lip.

"Drugs? Guns?"

"Could be, but with the kind of secrecy he's using I think it's something bigger. I only know what I know because my friend is doing the shipping."

"I don't suppose you have the contact information for that friend."

"No, actually, I don't. Secure lines, fake email adresses, you know the type. Paranoid. Like you." Sarai chuckled.

"Touche."

"The residence is on the water; it's a half a million dollar villa with high security defenses and armed guards. If you're thinking of getting him there, you'd better bring an army."
Sarai didn't have an army, but she'd find a way to deal.


"Thank you, my friend. You've been a great help." She snapped the cell shut and hopped off the drum. She walked counter-clockwise around the building until she reached the door to the commons room where everyone was staying.

"A bit chilly outside," she said cheerfully, hanging up her jacket and putting the pistol back on the table. "A little bird told me Ezra Holt is going to be in Miami for two months. If we're going to get any new friends, we need to do it soon. We have to have time to prepare for this mission. Holt has something else brewing, and I'm willing to bet it's not going to bode well for us." She flopped back on the couch. She decided to keep the shipment to Monte Video quiet. She never knew when she might need an ace in the hole.
 
Alice smothered her anger at Rife's remarks. He wasn't worth it. "My network doesn't make friends," She said smoothly, "But that doesn't mean my........associate is unwilling to take a suggestion as to where he or she might want to take their morning walk." Alice pushed her back off of the door frame and stood tall. "A word of warning, though," Alice gave a sharp look to Rife," I happen to know for a fact that this specific person does not appreciate rude behaviour from anyone that is asking for help. So do try to restrain yourselves until the task given to us has been complete."
 
Jay had left the commons room for a hallway during Alice and Rice's conversation, having recieved aa call on his own phone. Recognizing the number, he answered the call with a, "Yes, sir?" It as Marcus's father. His former comrade's family believed that Marcus had been a businessman, not a hacker, and that Jay was his boss. As he held his conversation with the man, his expression steadily grew worse. Jay was a diplomat by heart, but that did not mean Jay didn't have his own feelings about the world.

Jay only said two words in the entire conversation, though it was several times repeated. "Yes, sir...yes, sir..." However, as the talk was dying down, Jay interjected with, "Sir, um...can Marcus's other friend do one, too? He knew him better than I did..." Getting the affirmative, he said his farewells and hung up, returning to the commons room. Gesturing towards Lysander, he walked back into the hallway, hoping that he would follow.

If he did, he would look him right in the eye, and say, "Marcus's family wants us to...say something at the funeral. You don't have to if you don't want to, but I think if Marcus was with us, he would like it..."
 
Lysander bit his lip, watching Jay for a moment before finally admitting something that he hadn't told anyone, yet, "I'm not going to the funeral, Jay. I-I can't. I'm trying really hard not to completely break down right now and I just-- I don't think that it would be a good move. And I know that's not fair to Marcus but I just. . . can't do it, okay? I-I'm not so good with emotions and stuff and I just need to. . . I'm already fighting with Rife and I'm really on edge right now and I don't think me speaking when no one there really knows who he actually was is a good idea. I don't think that me even being there is a good idea."
 
Alice shook her head hopelessly at Lysander's reaction. Yes, it seems she had been wise to avoid the crew if they all were going to go on like that. "It's for the best," She told Jay with a nod,"We have pressing work to do, anyway. I'll find a few possibilities for our new hacker while you guys scope out the target's new roost." In all honesty, she wanted to leave the room because of the dangerously uncontrolled emotions of her teammates instead of the simply drive of needing to get the job done.
 
Rife began rolling his eyes at Lysander's comment, having a feeling he would still be complaining after all this time. He looked up at Alice and showed a sense of sarcastic relief glad the bickering finally had an ending, or so he thinks, and that their new candidate for the team was being found. He was eager to get on to their next mission believe it or not, he was tired of waiting around accomplishing nothing. And yet, he was the medic, what does he know about accomplishment and the excitement of a mission and the rewards reaped once they are over. If anything, he got zero respect for keeping people alive and nothing in return. He was used to it, which is a good reason why he is so bitter to this famished team.

"Oh good! We can move on from cry me a river part 3 and actually reforge our team's once rigid foundation. At this point, I truly don't care anymore, as long as we have some kind of body to fill the large gap in our team and as long as they are not a complete idiot I'll be fine. Hell, if they were a zombie that'd be even better, or a vampire, less wounds I'd have to patch up, literally. Blood doesn't wash off easily people."

Now acting like the diva of the entire group Rife was tossing around his words just to kill the silence in the room and show his eagerness to move on to the next task. There was little he wanted more in life than to keep busy and work with his hands, oh, and lots of money, that was important too. He was still on the fence about whether this team was going to get him what he wants in the end, or fail miserably at life. It was more leaning towards the failing miserably part. What's a dead team member when in reality, no criminal truly cared for their comrades, they wanted the pot of gold at the end of their crooked rainbow to show their suffering and their journey was worth something. Then they can go home in silence and revel at the thought of getting away with murder. It was a priceless rule in the guide book for bad guys, sometimes Rife thinks he is the only one that follows such a stand point lately. In his mind, the team was going soft.
 
"Vampire?" Alice said, unamused, "Why not a werewolf? They're much harder to kill and are immune to all diseases, except their own, of course. Anyway, if they agree, I doubt you'll have to tend to the often. My associate is very.....talented. As long as I'm no longer needed, I wouldn't mind leaving now. Anyone else who isn't needed might as well come with me. The target might have some of his goons lying about looking for us."
 
The bar had a good number of patrons flowing in for this time of the week. It didn't have the usual atmosphere of a regular bar, the place had more class. A man stood behind the bar, surveying the comers and goers when he wasn't serving drinks or listening to people trying to sing. Or when he wasn't being paid to cover the digital trails of greedy businessmen, or maintaining the class of this establishment by forcibly ejecting low-lives and thugs that disrupt the atmosphere. People came here to sing and have a good time damn it.

There was a buzz in his pocket. He stepped away from the bar for a moment and looked down at his phone, it was older than most current models but it did what he needed it to do. It was one of those greedy businessmen he had laundered money for, the money was where it needed to be and it didn't seem like anyone noticed it was gone. He punched a couple numbers on his phone with his thumb. The device on the other end would be destroyed and untraceable, so the businessman wouldn't be able to find him when he found out the money had been routed elsewhere. He tried not to grin too much as he slid his phone back into his pocket.
 
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