Paradise Lost

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The illustrious parent, descendant of Adam, once spoke of a man who could not fathom the means of travel with 19th century technology, without falling to his knees in sickness; the century of prosperous growth and evolution. Apparently, the frail elder was a holy man, seeking solitude in its purest of forms; a deserted Island, not far off the coast of Maine. He rowed to this Island in a tiny wooden dory; a boat without a bottom so that all the creatures of the sea could rise at night to converse with him. Albeit nourished by the company of the sea, the senior was as featureless as the dark ocean itself, as shallow and forsaken as a bay without anchoring vessels, a listless wreck without identification; an unfolding catastrophe as his mind peddled paranoid delusions back and forth. The creatures, so horrid in their stature spoke: “why is the sea so becalmed?” The man could not answer; he could only gaze in awe and idiocy. “It beckons you to walk upon its surface; but you should know all too well how it would shatter beneath your feet”. Thus, whenever this man, this holy man, would attempt traversing sea or land with the means of travel that he so feared, all the people around him would turn into the creature of the sea, chanting the words they had spoken to him that day. Julia’s father never explained the moral of the story, and never did she figure it out herself, at least not yet. In a sense, Julia felt much like this holy man, trapped at sea, in a tiny boat without a bottom, ever so willing to converse with the creatures of the ocean; this was her own moral of the story, unlike the man she did not fear these alien creatures of the sea, driving her mad.

Another day was dawning in the city of strife; a city much like a deserted Island, however, swarmed by the creatures of the sea. The sun rose to meet murky clouds plastered by the fumes of the heavens, shining upon the creatures below as if flirted by God’s very own, very sophisticated, computer program. Julia often felt as if she had abraded her memories of this ghastly city, and she had lost track of how long she had been there, albeit full of positive energy this somewhat gelid morning. The landmarks were so familiar to her that she had to remind herself to actually see the shapes and forms in front of her; she could stumble blind across these streets, without fear of missing her step and plummeting down to the depths of purgatory. The air was liquid; a puddle at her feet, dry as a still plain of sunburnt terra firma, yet so beautifully reflective and crystal. The sky was not yet of pitch black morning as familiar winter would mother, nor were they of clear blue which the ever so beautiful autumn would beget, the skies were of something in-between; a dull grey.

On her way to the Church Julia could not rid herself from the story her father once had told her, the one of the holy man and the creatures of the sea. She felt just like him, the holy man, when she traversed the city with the rapid transit bus; however, she never became sick from it. Usually she wouldn’t need to travel to the Church as she would sleep there, however, one of her regular “customers” was the owner and manager of a particular hotel, a quite fancy hotel, and he insisted Julia to come and stay there, free of charge, whenever she needed to; Julia found herself at the hotel once or twice a week, whenever she needed a hot shower or a good night’s sleep. The morning was still young; Julia was tasked with opening the Church this day, not for official matters, but for her own cause. As she arrived at the Church one of her notorious regulars was already camping at the door; his name was McAvoy, he was one of the resistance leaders, even if he had never explicitly told Julia; but she knew.

“You are as beautiful as ever Julia” the notorious, to the media, terrorist spoke. She blushed; those words, the compliments, were something she would never get used to. “You are here early, James…” but, before she could finish her sentence the man gently grabbed Julia’s both arms to get her full attention. “Listen Julia, I’m aware that I’ve never said it, but we both know that you are aware of who I am; something terrible is about to happen, and I implore you, you must join with us - you must let me protect you – you are too important to go to waste in the coming chaos.” The man spoke frantically, as if time itself had run out. “What are you talking about James? Let’s go inside, so we can sit down and have some tee.” She retorted. “There is no time Julia, you must listen to me; take your belongings and just leave, escape the city, go back home, or come with me.” Julia gazed into his eyes and she saw disparity, fear, and darkness; her pupils widened. “What do you know James; what do you know that you’re not telling me?” But before she could hear an answer the man had let her go and taken to his own road ahead, he shouted back to her repeated words, that she had to seek him out once “it” began.

In the wake of this rare event, Julia had all but forgotten the story of the holy man and the creatures of the sea, something she probably would have appreciated a lot. It was difficulty to connect Mr. McAvoy’s strange behavior to their previous encounters, their “sessions of confessions” as she called them. But, the evidence was clear that this man was a terrorist, at least according to the media, and with that an unstable man; however, Julia never saw him as a “terrorist”, he was just a man fighting for what he thought to be the right thing; justice, freedom, and liberty. Julia’s train of thought was interrupted by a gang of young adults which approached her as she was unlocking the door; these men were “hooligans”, at least according to society, and surely they had done some bad things, but Julia was there for them nonetheless. “Hi Julia”, one of them spoke; “Hello Michael” she replied, “Jamal, Clearance, Alex, Jason” she continued as she knew all of their names; a trait which they respected and cherished a lot: Julia’s never ending disposition to do good, and respect others. The young men were obviously there to speak with her, and not mug her. “Come on, let’s go inside” she said and opened the door for the youngsters, not a day above eighteen.

Meanwhile…

“Mr. President, the secretary approaches; he carries with him the results, the outcome, of the arrangement” A voice echoed in an empty hall of awe-striking architecture, riddled with the arts of many legends of Earth. “Mr. Secretary, you bring news” The President’s firm voice spoke, dark and gritty. “The majority share is ours, sir; the excavation is under our full control.” The secretary retorted. “Excellent” The President exclaimed with discretion. “The time has come Mr. President; the time has come to initiate operation Darkstar” The third man in the room spoke, a man of unknown rank and title. The President nodded at the mysterious figure, in agreement, as he left the room to tend to his official matters. The elderly man, clad in a black suit and tie, eyes hidden behind dark spectacles, rose from his seat to take his leave as well. The Secretary stared at him, confused and soaked in fear of what just happened; “This… this cannot happen, sir, operation Darkstar is just a theory with no credentials to support an actual attempt; it is not realistically viable.” The Secretary spoke. The mysterious figure approached the man in despair clear of doubt for the greater good of mankind; with a quick movement the dark figure slid an elegant blade, designed by legends, into the Secretary’s gut – the blade traversed the Secretary’s entire bowls – spilling his intestines onto the parquet flooring. The dark figure whispered, softly, in the Secretary’s ear as he struck him down: “For I, being poor, have only my dreams; I have spread my dreams under your feet, Tread softly because you tread on my dreams”.

OOC Thread

Read each others' posts carefully; I want you to, at the end of all your posts, write a small summary of your fellow role-player's posts prior to yours, as a sign of respect and that you've read and understood what they've written. For example: "Julia thinks about a story her father told her. She travels from a hotel to a church. At the church she encounters a man from the resistance, and a group of young boys. Meanwhile, a President receives good (?) news about an arrangement, which leads to a decision to initiate an operation that the Secretary cannot believe is actually real; the Secretary is killed by an unknown man because of it". A good idea is to jot down notes as you read others' posts; arrange your summaries in hider tags. You do not have to summarize the GM's posts.

Writing; attend to your posts on at least 2 separate occasions. You can write your entire post in one setting, but you should leave it for a couple of hours, or a day even, to clear your mind and then return to it to proofread, and/or perhaps even add more content.

Speed; understand that I'm a very busy person, thus, my posting speed may appear very slow to some of you. I prefer devotion/commitment before high posting speed; I don't want you to have this feeling: "Eermahgerd!! This IS sah exciting! ^^ KAWAAII" - 2 days later - "I'm bored with this now, BYYEE".

Rewards; I don't like favoritism, but I do like to reward people for their efforts, so don't confuse these two concepts. Commitment, written quality & quantity, and so on will all count towards in-character rewards; these rewards can be anything from items, weapons, to traits that I otherwise would not allow you to have. This is simply another form of showing gratitude to the participants in my role-plays that stay and make a sincere effort.

It was another morning that Casio had found himself in the damp twilight of the seedy slums of Washington DC. The sun had yet to cast the first of its illuminating rays across the murky, smog ridden horizon, leaving the city draped in a blanket of dismal gray man-made fog. He hated being awake this early but it was an unfortunate and unavoidable aspect of his job description. Business was to be handled face to face, especially a debt, Casio acting as the front line in an increasingly dangerous game of cat and mouse. Jack Daim was no killer. He lacked the spine to handle the rough and tumble nature of the business. Lacked an ability to shoot first and ask questions later. Despite any thought the chemist may have to the contrary, Jack would never gain the ability to stare down the barrel of a gun or put a knife in an unsuspecting back.

Likewise, despite his minor additions to Jack's formula, Casio had no delusions of who was the real brain behind their operation. He needed Casio, and Casio needed someone to give him a chance to do what now came all too naturally to him. It was a symbiotic relationship to say the least, but ultimately beneficial for both parties. As one form of genius to another, the gangster had to hand it to Jack, the man was smart, kept their tails covered and a step ahead of the powers that be. Which left the unpleasant, dirty day to day tasks to Casio, while Jack kept himself secluded in the lab of his cushy upscale apartment in the relative safety of the wealthy district.

Recently it had become damn near impossible to move product, even in the poorer sections of the city, the proverbial noose tightening with every passing day. Even with the dozens of greased palms and a lack of funding there were still cops in the slums who fancied themselves heroes. Not that he could express such problems to Jack, the man worried too much. Casio scowled at his reflection in the window, the flickering lighting within the decrepit city bus casting his visage in mock shadow. Outside the streets seemed to be eroding even as he watched them, the cracked sidewalks and refuse clogged drainage melting with the scattered piles of garbage and the bodies of those unfortunate enough to call this place home. Among the whores and killers which walked the dilapidated blocks there were still those innocent few, scrambling desperately to eke out an existence in the face of futility and destruction.

It hadn't been so long since he was one of them, perhaps not wholly innocent, but certainly not the hollow-eyed man who stood staring back at him in the mirror every morning. How quickly this city seemed to hunt down and eradicate whatever purity and goodness was left in the world. How quickly the pitiful insects which inhabited this hellish place sought to tear one another to shreds over even the most meager of scraps. Were it not for his relentless ambition, Casio mused, it was likely he too would have been just another pusher, lost in a sea of petty dealers and small time thugs. Left in the squalor that had become the world they lived in today. He had been so hungry and desperate for any opportunity. One real chance to push himself, and more importantly his sister, up out of the muck and filth. Jack had given him that; a fact Casio would not soon forget. He owed the man a great deal, even if much of his behavior he found detestable.

In his mind's eye he envisioned the Palm Terrace apartment complex, his next stop. The short stroll past the out-of-service elevators, up a few flights of stairs to the 8th floor where his quarry would be waiting. If the walls of that accursed place could talk, they'd most certainly choose to scream. It was a den of sin if ever there had been one; sex, drugs and death as well as gruesome combinations of the three were the only goods peddled within its grounds. Donning the plain black backpack which occupied the seat next to him the stout hispanic pulled the wire, signaling the bus that its lone occupant had reached his destination.

The familiar woosh of the door's hydraulics dumped his muscular form at the doorstep of the seemingly derelict building, the electric hum of an overhead streetlight still shining valiantly in the face of the impending dawn. Absentmindedly he adjusted the grip of the pistol tucked in the front of his pants, whistling a tune as he jogged gingerly up a handful of steps and into the apartment lobby.

Signs of Zeppelin were everywhere, grimy bodies with sunken features, scattered needles and exhausted lighters, the pungent chemical smell in the air, even the graffiti on the walls more featured cartoon blimps and stylized Z’s than any gang tag. Benny had chosen his turf wisely, the pudgy ogre of a man making money hand over chubby little fist on the bodies of his harem and the veins of the fiends which were his most loyal customers. What he hadn't chosen wisely, was his decision to smudge on the rules. It was a gift Casio seemed to be blessed with, an inherent sense of productivity and profitability, which had first granted the duo the notion to dig deeper into Benny's activities. Hadn't taken long, the pig-faced oaf had left little doubt where the missing money had gone, a string of questionably expensive purchases rung up in the recent weeks with nary a dollar in profits pointed in Casio's direction.

Peeling paint and tagged up concrete accompanied his every step as he lazily strolled up to the 8th floor, the sounds of pleasure and pain mingling with the cooing of the scantily-clad women who urged him to join them, if only for an hour. A mountain of a man greeted him from behind a small wooden table at top of the staircase, grunting his disapproval at Casio's arrival and holding out a palm to slow Casio's approach. The behemoth took a moment to roll himself out of a wooden chair which matched the table, stepping in front of the heavily tattooed hispanic to block his path to his goal.

"Benny." Casio stated flatly.

"He's not in. Get the fuck out of my face." The brute replied, folding his ham sized arms across his barrel chest.

"Oh?" The much smaller latino seemed to consider the man's reply carefully, before pulling the gun from his trousers and emptying its contents into the man's abdomen.

The concussive force of the pistol shook Casio's sinewy arm as the shots ripped into the man before him, scooping chunks out of his chest cavity and distributing them across the wall behind him. Before the massive man could so much as plant himself on the ground Casio had reloaded and threw himself into the now blood and bone splattered door. Plywood and iron groaned in protest as the jam erupted inward from the blow. It was one of the first skills he had developed in his criminal youth, a quick entry meant no time to react for those on the other side.

It was immediately obvious there had been some serious renovations done since his last visit to the dealer. An elaborate marble adorned pool table graced the center of the main room, the balls strewn across the table in mid-game. Deep indigo velvet hung in elaborate folds across the windows, blocking what little outside light drained in from the street below. The screams of the topless women which scrambled in every direction as he entered were all but unregistered as Casio steered himself deeper into the apartment. A grubby looking man lifted a stubby shotgun in Casio's direction only to find his eye socket forcefully invaded by another round from the .45 handgun, a violent explosion accompanied the man's collapsing form, showering a surely fake zebra skin rug in red speckles. With a single minded focus Casio threw open the door to Benny's posh office, unsurprisingly finding the dealer's rotund ass wriggling its way out of a window onto the fire escape.

"Benny!" he exclaimed excitedly, gripping the man's belt and hoisting him back into room with him, shoving the matte grey metal into the man's temple with more force than necessary. "Good to see you."

"Listen, I-" Benny found himself cut off by unforgiving metal being lashed across his face, the sickening crunch of bone accompanying the geyser of blood which poured from his face. "YEU BWOKE MY NOWZ!" Benny wailed, his vanilla colored suit soaking up much of the crimson liquid as he gripped the bridge of his nose.

"Yes." Casio's voice dripped with apathy, there was no joy, no apprehension, just the job. He slowly circled around the room, eyeing the fluorescent bottles which adorned Benny's ornate mahogany desk. Each bottle was sweaty with condensation, icy to the touch as Casio snatched one of them up and gave it a shake, watching the small gossamer flakes drift and tumble inside.

"Yuer mawkin a beeg mistake," Benny offered, tilting his head back against the wall in an effort to staunch the bleeding. "I dow't call da shawts. Got ta beleab me." he whined, his speech marred.

"Do I, Benny?" Casio snorted, raising the pistol.

From outside the shots were barely audible, and those who did hear them were unlikely to do anything about it. This was Benny's turf, or it had been, he was free to do as he pleased because he had the best product. Their product. When one slip up could cost them everything, discrepancies like Benny had to be dealt with. Stuffing the vivid cyan liquid into his bag and relieving the nearby safe of its contents, Casio cooly made his way back down stairs. As the first band of sunlight pierced the smog outside, painting the sky with rich shades of orange, blue and pink, the tattooed man trudged outside to meet a passing bus.

Next stop, Community View.

Previously...
Julia reflects on a story told to her long ago. She is confronted by a possible leader of the resistance and warned that some sort of large event is about to happen.

Casio kills a Zeppelin dealer for some kind of screw-up.

Now...
“Run.” It was the only thought that mattered. It was its own language. It had its own rhythm and beat. It was all of the consonants and all of the vowels in the alphabet. Running was the only thing that mattered. Katelyn was immersed in this thought, thinking it; breathing it. In the darkness, it was the only word that made sense in her mind. Then, a question arose, partly from her and partly from the darkness: "From what?"

The running stopped then. It suddenly made no sense. The darkness faded away, and all that remained was the Memories. Bright flames concussion, with glass and metal shrapnel accompanying them. Pills and more pills being swallowed to keep the pain at bay. A woman’s battered and bleeding body soaking the ground with crimson. Papers and cards flying at her. A city of sadness and fear. A young man that seemed to piece it all together in her mind. However, she could not repair the image herself. Then it started again: “Run.”

As if drowning in her own slumber, then finally coming up for air, Katelyn’s eyes ripped open and her lungs violently expanded and filled themselves with air. One of the lungs, however, did not agree with this action. A sharp pain shot across her entire body, scaling up and down her spinal cord, then began a coughing fit. Katelyn hastily reached toward her bedside table and grabbed a small dark brown bottle, then opened it and emptied its contents into her hand. Four pills left, she thought before taking one of the small oblong pellets and swallowing it. She grimaced as the pill passed through her esophagus. They never went down well.

Sitting on the side of her bed, Katelyn replaced the pills and the bottle, and then tapped twice on the table. A small holographic display appeared before her, showing the time and date. It was four in the morning and she could already hear the world moving, as if she had slept in. With a sigh, she rose to her feet as the pain subsided.

<>~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~<>

“Your mother was a great and noble woman, my boy. From what I understand, she sacrificed herself to save a secretary in the White House. You should be proud.”

The words echoed in Alec’s head, bouncing back and forth in an all-too-familiar voice. He heard this voice almost every day on the radio comms and the television. Every day, the voice congratulated someone who died or condemned some terrorist. What an ironic term for such a man to use, Alec thought, when he’s caused just as much, if not more, terror.

By this time, Alec had discovered that he was asleep, and that the best way to get rid of that awful voice would be to wake up. He slowly opened his eyes to a darkness not much different from the one in his dreams. A lot quieter though, he thought, sitting up on the old, torn-up couch on which he slept. He groaned in discomfort, knowing he would never get used to sleeping on that thing.

Suddenly, Alec heard hacking and gasping in the next room. If this wasn’t normal, he might have dash in to see what was wrong. However, this was indeed very typical. Katelyn, the woman whom he was currently “bunking” with would do this almost every morning; sometimes during the day and at night as well. In fact, it seemed like the fits were getting more and more frequent.

Groaning again, Alec worked his way to his feet and dragged himself to the door of Katelyn’s room. He leaned up against the wall next to it and waited for her to walk out. He figured it best not to disturb her if she was still in pain.

A few moments later, Katelyn tapped the frame of her door three times and it gently slid open. She passed through the door to see her ‘house guest’ standing near the door. “Are you alright?” he asked, with a bit of morning flem still in his throat, “I heard you…”

Katelyn glared at him defensively. “I’m fine,” she said in denial, “It was just a morning cough.” She knew that Alec wouldn’t believe her claim, since he was one of the few people alive that knew about her… condition.

Alec said nothing, but simply glanced down at her right hand in response. Katelyn followed his gaze and lifted her hand to examine it: Blood was dripping from her palm. Alec’s expression became more serious then concerned: “It’s getting worse, isn’t it? I told you that those street drugs won’t cut it. You need to go to the clinic. They have the right prescriptions for Augs.”

Katelyn’s expression grew serious as well, but more in rancor than concern. “Yeah, because walking into an Aug clinic is completely safe,” she replied sarcastically, “I might as well pull down my pants on a street corner, then walk into an alley and hope I don’t get raped.”

Alec stared, frustrated into Katelyn’s eyes. He knew this was turning into an argument, so he changed his tactic. “I’ll go with you. You work in shit conditions anyway, and hardly get paid. I’ll pay for whatever you need to get the medicine.”

Katelyn didn’t respond immediately. It pissed her off that he cared this much. She didn’t ask for his help. In fact, he asked for hers. Alec was, after all, the one sleeping on her couch. After a moment of silent animosity, she sighed in defeat. “Why do I let you stay here again?”

Alec simply shrugged in reply and Katelyn went back into her room to get dressed. With a deep sigh, he returned to his couch, and then tapped twice on the coffee table in front of it. A long drawer shot out the side, containing Alec’s clothing. As he dressed, he couldn’t help but wonder: Why exactly did she let him stay here? Was it out of kindness? Out of pity? Maybe she shares the same feelings I--?

Alec shrugged off that thought and finished dressing. He had no idea why she let him be there, but it definitely wasn’t out of fondness for him.

After dressing, Alec dug his hand down into the drawer and drew a loaded handgun from the bottom. Looking around to make sure Katelyn hadn’t finished in her room, he stuffed the gun barrel-down into the back of his pants and covered the rest of the weapon with the tail of his jacket. Katelyn didn’t like guns, or really violence in general, but Alec didn’t feel safe without a gun. DC was far too dangerous of a place to roam unarmed.

Katelyn exited her room just as Alec perfected his concealment. She gave him a strange look as he straightened his posture and faced her. She thought about asking what he was doing, but thought it wiser not to ask. “Are we going?” she asked, still a bit irritated by the fact that they were, “I’d rather we get this over with.”

She almost felt bad, seeing him try so hard to help her. The only reason the two of them were friends was because of his last name. That name, Reynolds, written on a blank piece of paper and the application for Schumer Private School had led her to where she was. She had been here nearly four years though, and still had no idea why exactly her uncle had sent her. None of it made sense.

“Alright, let’s go, since you’re so eager,” Alec replied sarcastically.

Katelyn gave him a cold glare, and then turned to the door of her apartment. “Yeah, it’s always been my dream to die young in the streets of Washington.”

He rarely experienced dreams. If he did, they mostly featured unclear memories and terrible nightmares which made sense to Isaac on some occasions. In his last dream he saw this great monolith that shone in terrible, red light and he woke up, having emptiness in his chest as always. Sunlight pierced trough the windows and shone in Isaac's eyes. God, he really hated mornings as he rarely slept more than 5 hours and that mostly left him deprived of sleep, but he couldn't just sleep at nights and for him, it felt like a urge that he could not understand and that mostly left him with heavy thoughts that made him uneasy in early hours.

It's 7:30 already. Having read Necronomicon and some light political philosophy on communism had left him busy for the night. These books were forbidden and having books like these in one's possession mostly meant death sentence or imprisonment for rest of his life. Even if he shared political views of radicals and terrorists he worked differently in practice. He was business man. Everything he did was beneficial for him.

Issac tilted his head to his left and it was 7:34 already. He rubbed his eyes and was struggling with himself as always. - I wish I could slumber for weeks in my apartment, left alone to my sorrows and joys. - tough Isaac. He didn't have to go to work today, but he had some serious business in his mind. He had to deal with some petty competition from rival company that threatened Worth companies share in business that he had secured in last year he had worked for this company.

*RING* *RING* *RING*

Phone was ranging and Isaac stretched his arm towards the table and grabbed his cellphone. It was his colleague that worked in different department of Worth company. Issac sat on the side of the bed and answered to the call and rubbed his forehead. He already knew what he would say and what kind of person he was. Isaac saw his colleague as cold hearted person that only cared for his career and never left time for personal joys and unlike Isaac, he didn't like luxury.

- Jack? -
- Yes, it's me. I suppose you haven't forgot that we have a meeting today concerning some petty competition that Mr. Black has given to us? -
- Never had. We'll meet Downtown DC at the Marble gates? -
- As always. I will be there at nine o clock. -

Jack always stopped conversation when he had received all the information he needed or had arranged everything. He rarely spoke about himself and never really got in personal details. Isaac had always wanted to be like him, even if they were opposites. He valued the high professionalism of Jack and the way he dealt with problems. Isaac finally got up and went to kitchen with books he had read. He had put his palm on a special device that detected his fingerprints and the shape of his palm and opened a large cabinet that housed tens, if not hundreds of books.

Carelessly he put his last night literature back in the cabinet. Necronomicon by Aleister Crowley wasn't that interesting as he had expected. Communist stuff was way better and was really rare in DC. He inspected all the books he had and felt like he had everything that revolutionary leader would require to spark a revolution. Strange. Isaac wondered how he could combine Necronomicon with Communist propaganda to ensure liberty to this cesspit. Freedom is illusion, he deemed. He closed the cabinet and continued his morning ritual.

High quality coffee tasted good. It has always tasted good and he rarely forbid himself of this pleasure. As he sat in the kitchen he had turned on the television and watched some news, but Isaac didn't really concentrate on the news as he had more important things on his mind. He will have to hire some skilled hitman today to do his dirty work. Isaac rarely got into violence. He wasn't weak. He was stronger than most lowlifes that lived in poorer parts of DC. He could afford expensive food and was also very pedantic and rarely ate food that he didn't taste. He was very healthy and that was rarity in these times of desperation.

Isaac had done most of his morning ritual. He always woke up, had coffee and a cigarette. He had to get dressed now and he could as well proceed to Marble gates. Another luxury was to be revealed in his closet. A very expensive sets of suits stood carefully arranged in the closet and they clearly told of Isaac good taste. Isaac had dressed in black suit that featured a red tie and he went to the mirror.

- Looks to kill. - Isaac thought.

========================

Downtown was already bustling with activity. Men of middle class were walking around the streets and mostly wore good clothes and had healthy look on their faces. Some, like Isaac, wore expensive business suits. Luxurious cars strolled these streets and police presence was also obvious. Although Isaac knew that police brutality was very mild in this part of town, he hardly felt relaxed with all the flying cameras. He had seen how police operated in slums of DC. They usually went on raids on drugs and would mostly beat up some homeless junkies or some young kids struggling to survive. He spat on the ground as he was glad that he had lived in those conditions for a very short time.

Isaac drove down to northern part of Downtown, DC. DC looked very beautiful and strangely to Isaac, he even forgot the situation that everyone lived for a moment. The morning skies were the only great thing that one could see now. How could us, human race gone from renaissance to hardships of today was still very unclear to Isaac and everything he read of philosophy only made matters worse as he would analyze the situation over and over and still wouldn't understand a thing. For intellectual person this world was opposite of the world we wanted to inhabit, but still, we did this ourselves. Why should everyone blame someone else? It was their own darkness of mind and lack of morals that drove this world in the darkness after all.

Isaac drove by the Marble gates. It was expensive restaurant and Isaac rarely ate there as he would mostly handle business there and have something to drink. He opened the door and locked his car and strolled towards to entrance of the restaurant. He enjoyed this luxury and Isaac was really glad that he belonged to the lowest part of the elite that could afford this. After all, he was only 30 years old and if he would have to remember himself 6 years earlier, the picture would have been a lot different. A young man, dressed in cheap suit walking from one company to another trying to get himself a job that he believed would only feed him and ensure him relatively safe home. Fool he was. - Look at me now! - he though - I have done everything I wanted back then. To be honest I have achieved even more. I cannot fail and everything tells me that I will succeed. Perhaps, one day I will own corporation like Worth corp. Perhaps? No, I will. -

He's thoughts were disturbed by a recipient that would ask him about reservation. Isaac obviously had a reservation. If he wouldn't be daydreaming he could see the luxury of this place and mostly it would surprise him every time he would come here. Dim lighting only made the atmosphere more enjoyable. This place was usually preferred by shady business men like Isaac and Jack and high ranking officials would rarely make deals in places like these as they had their own penthouses that Isaac didn't yet have.

Isaac sat down in the corner of the restaurant and ordered a shot of whiskey and lighted up a cigarette. It was 8:50 and Jack always arrived in time. He had ten minutes to ponder his mind, sitting alone and only to be disturbed by a waitress that would get Isaac the whiskey.

Bill told that it costs 120 dollars. Isaac was either a fool or a rich fool by trying to impress the Jack by having drink this expensive. Jack doesn't even like luxury.

- Ponder your dreams during the night, not the day Isaac. - Isaac told himself in his thoughts.

------------------------

Casio made his way trough the slums and killed a drug dealer called Benny.

Katelyn experienced terrible cough that apparently occurs due to her lungs being sick. Alec is very concerned about her, but he lives in her apartment and never the less, offers some help even if he is apparently broke. Alec has some kind of romantic feelings towards Katelyn.

English naturalist Charles Darwin believed that variations in species were inherited at birth, each newly mutated individual created simply to be better suited for their environment. This belief that nature is what dictates the behavior of a specimen is referred to as evolution. However there is a contrasting theory written by the philosopher John Locke known as the Tabula rasa, which translated means ‘the blank slate’. The Tabula rasa states that individuals are born without predetermined mental content and that their knowledge is gained through experiences and perception. This would suggest that all offspring begin as nothing more than an empty box eagerly awaiting content to be placed inside. Inez Daim and her quivering cracked lips would be a prime candidate for anyone looking to further prove John Locke’s theory.

Her frail figure lay huddled on the stained hard wood floor of her loft, as if she was but a piece of trash someone had absent mindedly discarded from their pocket. Scantily clad in a tattered light pink tank top and boy shorts the girl’s goose bumps were visible even in the dim morning light that had barely begun to trickle through the numerous windows. A plethora of miscellaneous items were scattered around her body including, the Stanford Encyclopedia of Philosophy, a book containing the works of Neo Rauch, two empty bottles of La Grenouille absinthe, and a small baggy with a printed eye ball on it filled with a white powdery substance. Clearly still at the mercy of the previous evening young miss Daim had hardly slept four hours before the insomnia that usually plagued her awoke her from her slumber. Icy long lashed orbs lazily glided open displaying the mess she had left for her self to take care of. Frustrated at her inability to stay asleep without the aid of narcotics Inez stiffly pulled her lanky body from the ground, groaning slightly. It was a rarity for her to not fall asleep in the comfort of her own bed on a weekday however as of late it was difficult for her to fall asleep anywhere. Which currently meant any bed that offered her the promise of rest was sufficient as far as she was concerned. Cracking her neck rather violently the young girl began to pick up her poorly placed possessions and set them gently upon the aged apothecary-chest-made-coffee table that was positioned to her right. It wasn’t until Inez had cleaned everything aside the small baggy the she had cradled in her palm that she paused for a moment. Biting the side of her cheek pensively the girl held up the petite plastic bag to the slowly approaching sunlight. Further inspection displayed how little of her stashed remained from the previous day. A sigh passed airily through her miserably chapped pout, she had enough for a bump or two but she clearly was in dire need of paying her father a visit.

Not wasting her time with precision or other petty formalities Inez dumped the contents of the bag onto the back of the Stanford Encyclopedia, pushing it into a thin line using the back of a 4h drawing pencil. With almost immediate mental gratification she sucked the contents into her nasal cavity, rubbing her raw nose lightly at the end of her swift action to ensure she hadn’t let any of her father’s product go to waste. With the first task of her morning routine out of the way Inez was prepared to actually get ready. A hasty and deliberate click of her tongue turned on the lights in her exceptionally roomy loft, the TV followed shortly after.

“Good morning Washington DC! On this wonderfully cloudy day we’d like to commemorate early 21st century artist the Black Keys by playing a brief tribute to their recently deceased lead singer; Dan Auerbach,” the television announcer grinned as one of Ms. Daim’s favorite songs began to triumphantly blast through her high quality speaker system.

After washing her face, brushing her teeth, and taking a very brief and uncaring look at her unpainted reflection in the mirror the ex-drug dealer entered her closet. Dilated pupils rapidly scanned the enormous stacks of clothes until she finally settled on an outfit. It was nothing particularly special, black leather highwaisted pants, maroon doc marten lace ups, a loose white V-neck that ever so slightly displayed the delicate black lace of the bra that lay underneath it, a long knee length vintage army coat, and a black skull cap delicate placed over her short unbrushed mess of chalky blonde hair.

The thick heel of her Doc Martens clinked in unison to the music being fed to her eardrums through her headphones. That song, the one that had greeted her first thing this morning, played once more. The voice of the recently dead man excited her, confirming her euphoric state that the small quantity of blow her system was harboring had established. It was unusual for Inez to be experiencing such joy, especially on a day the required her to go back to her father’s house, however the bleak morning sky and thick ominous air seemed to promise something. The girl wasn’t quite sure what it was she sensed, perhaps it was nothing more than a storm on the horizon, but she could tell it was something new. Something unordinary to break her mundane routine. Regardless it seemed to breathe some life into the generally anxious and easily irritable female.

By the time the frail doe of a girl had made it to the bottom of her father’s building she’d had more businessmen glare at her in confusion than usual. Perhaps it was the large sunken eyes, all around skeletal appearance, or maybe it was the fact she was a young women free from the confines of a noose like necktie wrapped around her throat walking down the street of one of the wealthiest parts of town. By the time her finger had punched in the code for her father’s complex and she had trapped herself inside the four walls of the buildings elevator her happiness had dwindled. The fidgety and selfish gaze of her father replaced the lovely and vivid Rauch paintings that Inez previously had painted inside her thoughts

“Hey,” the awkward and distant exchange was mutual as Inez pushed past her father into his overly swanky bachelor pad.

Boney finger’s hurriedly plucked an apple from the cast iron kitchen table to her left. Sinking her teeth deep into the skin she sloppily wiped the juice leaking down her face with the back of her hand, “ Are you and Casio stashing else where or do you have anything left in either of your apartments? It’s an emergency.”

Mediterranean Sea
Approx. 50 kilometers from the Island of Corsica, France

"Quite the hard man to find you are Mr. Lemaitre. Has it been thre-- no, five times now that we've caught up to you only to watch you slip away by some unimaginably good stroke of fortune. Really, if it wasn't so vexing, I'd have to admit you to be a very impressive individual indeed."

The gentleman bound at the wrists, to a chair bolted into the floor of the ship, smiled modestly; partly because the comment was so obviously laced with his captor's venomous contempt, but also because on the level of introduction, having already embedded himself this deep into the man's thoughts was complimenting -- to him at least. He was right there, nestled just below the subcutaneous, where the nerves fray only superficially, existing as some subconscious malignant irritation that threatened the man's every attempt at maintaining his composure. The two players in this game of cat-and-mouse, stared after each other, both displaying emotions perhaps a tad inappropriate considering their respective positions. On one hand you had a man decorated quite impressively within even the President's political milieu who had committed himself quite exhaustively to the chase of just one individual; and on the other, you had that one unassuming individual who had eluded him for nearly six years. The resources of an entire government task-force were ill-suited at besting this one man, and despite having him secured to a chair on a ship in the middle of the ocean, the detective couldn't deny the precariousness of his detainment. A pursuit nearly six years of age ending in a simple cuff-and-tuck at a Parisian cafe, with one of the government's most sought after paranormal-criminals didn't have the most settling assurance behind it. He was dubious to say the least.

"We both knew your luck would run its course eventually, it was inevitable." The detective said with not as much confirmation as he was hoping to convey. But then again, he didn't quite believe it himself.

"Well, what can I say détective. A man can only so vigorously deny a threat to his life until it becomes a struggle of acceptance. I grew tired."

"So, I'm to assume that the fortuity behind your capture was due to nothing more than a boy running out of gas," the man looked at him suspiciously, almost certain he was letting on to something he had previously intended to withhold.

"I believe that is the extent of it unfortunately, monsieur." He replied though not with the low tone of the disapproved and expression of shame, but rather a boyish grin that bespoke of something nefarious. The facade he had constructed of someone being held captive was so very purposely derelict.

The detective stood from his seat and strode to the door with purpose, exiting momentarily, before reentering with a novel sense of direction. He might have been the one at the head of this chase, but he certainly wasn't the one calling the shots. He coughed ineffectually, getting the attention of the gentleman who had ever-so silently been an observant of the scene, sitting further in the bowels of the room with a book in his hand that he pretended to digest. It was resoundingly clear, however, from his gargantuan stature and the piece tucked in a holster on his backside that reading wasn't his preferred pass-time. When he wasn't exchanging cursory glances with the detective, he would look curiously after the captive, his interest poorly concealed though with Gaspard's reputation around the agency it was hardly unexpected. The man stood as well, shook his joints free of tension before proceeding to the door to motion two others into the room. Both lackeys marched in with several jugs of water in tow, staring curiously at the detainee who returned their glances with an expression void of emotion. The man exchanging jabs with the detective before was slowly reverting, relinquishing his claim to something profound; evil almost, though a necessary evil that would prove to be vital if the man were to survive the moments to follow.

"I understand how unbelievably tired you must be right now," said the detective, his palms pressed together flatly, and his tone an inquisitive shade, "but I'm going to have to ask you to exert yourself a little more. I've been told that there's a couple colorful notions buzzing around up there," he continued, motioning towards the captive's head. "That you, my friend, know something my associates would like to know as well. And seeing as how they've put some much faith in my ability to get you to divulge with me what exactly that information is, I'm asking you to be a friend. My friend. So come on, whaddya say?"

"As appealing as that sounds Mr. Callahan, I'm a bit of an introvert. I just don't do friends."

Challenge accepted. The detective almost snickered to himself so elated was he at the thought of what was to come, the pain he would inflict on this little smug bastard. He'd been waiting a long time for this moment and he could feel his hands almost shaking in anticipation. "How fortunate," he said sparing no sincerity, " I was actually hoping I would have to resort to this. Well, it'd go down like this anyways, Copernicus always knew that." He looked to one of the men standing over the detainee who withdrew a dozen or so threaded rags from his jacket and handed one to detective.

"Gaspard, do me a favor and give us a fight. I want enough time to enjoy the moment." He wrapped the rag around his face, bunching it in the back so the fabric tightened in the front, bearing into the man's face and forming around it like a second skin. "Let's get him wet."

Twenty-five minutes later...

The trawler plunged into the angry swells of the dark, furious sea like an awkward animal trying desperately to break out of an impenetrable swamp. The waves rose to Goliathan heights, crashing into the hull with the power of raw tonnage; the white spray caught in the night sky cascaded down over the deck under the force of the night wind. Everywhere there were the sounds of inanimate pain, wood straining against wood, ropes twisting, stretched to the breaking point. The animal was dying.

Two abrupt explosions pierced the sounds of the sea and the wind and the vessel's pain. They came from the dimly lit cabin that rose and fell with its host body. A man lunged out of the door grasping the railing with one hand, holding his stomach with the other.

The detective followed, the pursuit cautious, his intent violent though hindered by several wounds he himself had been inflicted with. He stood bracing himself in the cabin door; he raised a gun and fired again. And again.

The detainee at the railing whipped both his hands up to his head, arching backwards under the impact of the fourth bullet. The trawler's bow dipped suddenly into the valley of two giant waves lifting the wounded man off his feet; he twisted to his left unable to take his hands away from his head. The boat surged upwards, bow and midships more out of the water than in it, sweeping the figure in the doorway back into the cabin, a fifth gunshot fired wildly. Gaspard screamed frantically, his hands now lashing out at anything he could grasp, his eyes blinded by blood and the unceasing spray of the sea. There was nothing he could grab, so he grabbed at nothing; his legs buckled as his body lurched forward. The boat rolled violently leeward and the man whose skull was ripped open plunged over the side into the madness of the darkness below.

He felt rushing cold water envelop him, swallowing him, sucking him under, and twisting him in circles, then propelling him up to the surface - only to gasp a single breath of air. A gasp and he was under again.

And there was heat, a strange moist heat at his temple that seared through the freezing water that kept swallowing him, a fire where no fire should burn. There was ice, too; an icelike throbbing in his stomach and his legs and his chest, oddly warmed by the cold sea around him. He felt these things, acknowledging his own panic as he felt them. He could see his own body turning and twisting, arms and feet working frantically against the pressures of the whirlpool. He could feel, think, see, perceive panic and struggle - yet strangely there was peace. It was the calm of the observer, the uninvolved observer, separated from the events, knowing of them but not essentially involved.

Then another form of panic spread through him, surging through the heat and the ice and the uninvolved recognition, a dose of natural adrenaline that shocked his system further than the injuries he sustained or the ocean that threatened to swallow him. He could not submit to the peace; at least not yet! It would happen any second now; if he were truly meant to die than at least he would see this damn thing through. He had orchestrated the plan up until this point, with a few unexpectedly fatal alterations, but he would need to live at least to witness the fruit of his plan.

He kicked furiously, clawing at the heavy walls of water above, his chest bursting. He broke surface, thrashing to stay on top of the black swells. Climb up! Climb up! A monstrous rolling wave accommodated; he was on the crest, surrounded by pockets of foam and darkness. Nothing. Turn! Turn!

It happened. The explosion was massive; he could hear it through the clashing waters and the wind, the sight and the sound somehow his doorway to peace. The sky lit up like a fiery diadem and within that crown of fire, objects of all shapes and sizes were blown through the light into the outer shadows. Even through his exhaustive struggle to mount the waves, he saw the withered form of the detective instants before a fiery hell consumed him. His own struggle he endured as he realized the sound of wood splintering and metal being twisted and shredded by the sheets wasn't just a ship battling with the ferocity of the ocean, it was the concussive force of a bomb being detonated from within the bowels of his ship. The puzzlement plaguing his mind for a mere second, confounded how Gaspard could have managed to rig a ship he himself had gone out of his way to procure. How was that possible? And even though Gaspard was slowly losing his lease on life, his reserve of energy thoroughly exhausted, witnessing the minute frame of his expression of utter defeat and the snapshot of his perplexed thoughts was enough to put a smile on his face at least.

He had won. Whatever it was, he had won.

Suddenly, he was plummeting downwards again, overcome by the fatigue he slipped noiselessly into the mouth of the abyss. He could feel the rushing waters crash over his shoulders, cooling the white hot heat at his temple, warming the ice cold incisions in his stomach and his legs and ...

His chest. His chest was in agony! He had been struck - the blow crushing, the impact sudden and intolerable. Oddly enough a certain serenity pervaded his being, though not the kind that eased the thoughts or soothes to soul, this serenity simply juxtaposed the intensity of his wounds. A calm from the raging fires that burned on the surface though occupied his head with bullet holes that riddled his body, the gash that severed the flesh of his head, and the lactic fatigue that rendered his appendages unemployable and heavier than the water itself.


It happened again! Let me alone. Give me peace.

And again!

And he clawed again, and kicked again ... until he felt it. A thick, oily object that moved only with the movements of the sea. He could not tell what it was, but it was there and he could feel it, hold it.

Hold it! It will ride you to peace. To the silence of darkness ... and peace.