It all started with a weird noise outside my window.

Well, it wasn’t really my window. More like I was renting it for the night.

The noise itself was unlike anything I had ever heard. Like the combination of a child’s scream and a birds cry. I happened to be on the computer and viewing some of the archives here at forums. So I typed in that I had heard something, shut down my laptop and took a peek outside the window. I heard the noise once more before pulling the curtain aside. It seemed higher and more distant now.

Looking out into the night I saw a man across the road, his back turned to me and looking up. Possibly trying to pin point the source of the noise. It was a cloudy night but I could have sworn I saw some large, winged thing flying away.

As the man began to turn back in my direction, for a moment I could see the MP5 stashed under his coat.

Immediately I pulled away from the window and dived down. As I had surmised might happen, he had seen the curtain move and knew he was spotted. Wasting no time, he had pulled out his MP5 and opened up on my room. While he was reloading, I grabbed my laptop, tossed it into my duffel bag and burst through the door into the hall of the hotel. Next time I insist on a floor other than first! Behind me, I heard the burst of a second magazine spray into my room.

My heart was pounding as I sprinted down the hallway. This guy wasn’t law enforcement. Legitimate law enforcement doesn’t generally start an arrest by emptying two magazines of 9mm into a suspects room. He might be black ops though.

More than likely, he was a colleague.

Out the back door of the building and into the parking lot, I ran. I needed to find someplace to regroup. Meanwhile, I kept thinking. So who hired this goon? Any of my clients? So far, all of them had been satisfied. Then again you never know when someone might decide you’re a loose end that needs tying off.

To date, none of my marks have survived. But they surely had friends or family. Maybe I hadn’t been as careful as I had thought? In this business, everyone gets caught sooner or later. Or dead.

As I ran into a back alley, my paranoia kicked into overdrive. Maybe it was someone from or connected to the Lazlo Society. I had been online a lot that day. Maybe someone had found a way to track me down that way? Was some vigilante do-gooder out to put an end to the stain that is my presence on the boards?

Behind a dumpster I quickly pulled on my ‘business suit’. I’m not going to describe it in detail here on the boards but it’s definitely designed for wet work. I grabbed my twins. Then I tossed the duffel bag into the dumpster. Following the bag was a special incendiary device. I was climbing the fire escape when the acrid smoke caught in my nose, letting me know that my beloved .338 was nothing more than molten slag.

Leave no evidence.

Fortunately the roofs in the area were fairly close together so I was hoping to make my escape by never touching the ground. Unfortunately, my colleague anticipated this manoeuvre. As I was leaping between two buildings that were only four feet apart, the air behind me was filled with bullets.

He had missed me but only just.

I wish I had this guys budget for wasted ammo.

When I landed, I spun around and fired a couple rounds of my own back his way.

He’d already moved around the corner and out of the way. He decided now would be a good time for some witty banter. “Why run, Nemesis? You only prolong the inevitable.”

No, I’m not hiding my real name here. He called me Nemesis.

Where else do you use this name?

Only here.

“I have to admit, Nemesis.” He continued in a conversational tone, “You weren’t what I was expecting in a world class hitman.”

“I prefer the term assassin.” I said while I lay on the roof, trying to figure his game out. “Hitman suggests mob connections.”

He laughed heartily. “You seriously expect me to believe that you don’t have mob connections?” His voice was covering another noise.

“Let’s just say our relationship isn’t exclusive.” I got up and ran.

You know those rifle launched grenades? You plug them into the muzzle along with an adapter and a blank cartridge is used to fire them at your target. Some bright boy miniaturized the concept. A 9mm blank can fire a 30mm mini-grenade. The USSR had a pistol specially made for these little bastards. Apparently this guy had modified his MP5 to fire something similar.

Brick and mortar exploded behind me. The explosion sent me face first into the ground and knocked the wind out of me. “GetUp!GetUp!GetUp! DO YOU WANT TO DIE?! GET UP!!!” I screamed at myself inside my own head.

Air sucked into my chest once more. Joints complained as they were forced to haul my body up again. Adrenaline stifled the pain. Legs pounded the ground. There was a pop and then sound flooded back into my world like a tidal wave. I leapt for the next building. This time I shot down at the ground while I was out in the open.

Good thing I did because he was there, just getting ready to shoot. My shots threw his aim off and I made it safely to my destination. My feet beat heavily on the roof but I could still hear him running ahead to the next alley way.

Just what I wanted him to do. The last alley had been wider than the last. Enough room to squeeze in a fire escape. I turned on my heel and raced back for it. I made a lot of noise in my descent but I didn’t care. Speed and aggression were the things to use now.

He started to come around the corner and I fired. Unfortunately I caught the corner of the building. Being no fool, he pulled himself back before my next shot caught him along a corrected trajectory.

I was still running. It was nothing to scoop up a garbage bag and toss it ahead of me into the open street where he was waiting. Predictably, he emptied an entire magazine into it as it flew and then exploded over the street.

Around the corner I came, firing two rounds into his, very surprised, center of mass.

He was staggered but didn’t fall. No blood, either. Body armor.

Recklessly he tossed aside his MP5. His other hand slapped my readied pistol out of my hand before I could squeeze the trigger and dump lead into his head. My hand felt like someone had just smashed it with a sledgehammer. And it’s not like I’m exactly weak myself.

Some of my colleagues might be unnerved to lose their primary weapon in a fight for their lives. I have more than one way to kill a body at my disposal.

My palm struck his chin and rocked his head back. To my surprise and dismay, his head snapped right back again with a wicked smile on his ugly face. No time for that as he was swinging a haymaker at me sure to ring my bell if it connected.

I put up both my arms to block while trying to get under his arm. While I redirected his arm away from me, the pain shot right thru the adrenaline. Ignoring the pain, I grabbed his arm and attempted to flip him over my hip.

Instead of the hoped for flip, he pulled me back so that his arm was wrapped around my head. He had tried to get around my neck but I got my chin down in time to protect my throat. The neck is a good place to go for in a fight. People panic and try to protect it. I didn’t panic. I kept fighting.

Punching him in the face didn’t really do anything. The guy was a brute. So I swung my arm lower. A lot lower. His breath rushed past my cheek in a single gush. The arm around me slackened and I was free.

Wasting no time, I got in behind him to put the same choke hold on him. Only I got under his chin and started to put the squeeze directly on his throat.

“Nighty-night, you son of a bitch!” I whispered in his ear.

He simply reached behind himself to grab me and toss me to the ground in front of him.

So I kicked him. In the tender and danglies. He tried to block my leg with his melon sized fist but I was much faster.

His face came down and my knee came up. He must have seen stars as he rolled over in the fetal position on the sidewalk.

I rolled over and grabbed up my pistol. Then I grabbed one of his arms and yanked it roughly behind his back, forcing his face into the cement. I slapped the pistol up side the back of his head. Then I jammed the muzzle into the side of his eyeball while I sat on his back. “Who hired you?”

“I’m a professional.” He said. His voice was neither pleading, fearful nor defiant. It was a statement of fact.

Rage and anger burned to my very core. “Fine then. Where do you want it?”

“Back of the head.”

Professional courtesy demanded that I make it quick and painless.

Instead, I slammed my pistol into the back of his skull hard enough to knock him out this time.

Let him live with the fact that he was beaten by someone better.

Oh, this is no mercy. He’ll be on the run for the rest of his, probably, very short life. He failed to stand and deliver. That is simply unacceptable in this profession.

The next few hours were spent activating contingency plans and getting a new identity and new gear. Because I was in a hurry, it cost me quite a bit.

Finally I was able to log onto here again. I was still on an adrenaline high and in high spirits.

That is when Hannah came online and asked if someone would check on the condition of her mom's body.

You didn't interrogate?

Tough fight. You know, where there's one there could be more. You'll have to be more careful going forward, especially being a loner.

Sebastian,

I did not interrogate because there was no point. We were still in a public street. We weren't very far away from where he initially blasted my room full of holes. The police were already in that scene and were no doubt enroute to respond to our recent gunfire. Carrying him someplace else would have been problematic. Because he is heavy and I was exhausted and injured.

Finally, interrogation is not my forte. I can cause pain and hope that the person tells me what I want to hear instead of what they think I want to hear. There are even drugs that help in this. But these techniques take time and are not reliable.

Besides, there are other ways of fishing for the information I want.

Natasha,

You're right. Usually we work in pairs. It's safer to have some one covering your back. No doubt this guy was considered highly disposable by his employer. Or he recently lost his partner. Or he has his own reasons for working solo.

But I expect that this is not over yet.

Disclaimer:

The following is the copyrighted account of what I found in Mr. Caliburn’s home. Anyone caught reproducing it’s contents in whole or in part by any means will be prosecuted. Permission is only granted to post quotes of this post in other posts of this public electronic forum known as http://www.LazloSociety.org.

Furthermore, this account is a reflection of my own impressions, thoughts and feelings as I examined the site. They are my own opinions on the matter and do not necessarily reflect the facts, motives or circumstances surrounding this incident. For the basic facts, see Agency Voice under Hannah’s ‘Not at home’ thread.

Because Hannah and other children are active on these boards, I have kept the gory details to a minimum.

/Disclaimer

Hannah didn’t ask me specifically to check things out for her. She sent out her appeal to the boards and I answered. I had placed my self in DC in case a call for assistance came. Perhaps that is what made it easier for my colleague to find me earlier. I figured I’d already paid for my dalliance so I may as well complete the task. Besides, I was still on an adrenaline high.

The police were present at the scene of course. But it seemed as though their investigation was complete. The area was still cordoned off and a cruiser was parked out front. Maybe they still had some checking around to do.

That was the easy part around. Constable Responsible looked bored out of his mind. And his partner was so interested in his magazine, he may as well not have even been there.

I won’t be discussing Mr. Caliburn’s passive home defences here.

Much of the home was undisturbed. The bedroom was another matter.

Hardened police detectives and crime scene investigators would have cringed at this scene. It’s the kind of thing that drives them to drink or harder forms of self-medication. Some wind up committing suicide after being exposed to such excesses of gore and inhumanity. All of them from the greenest rookie to the hardest veteran ask the same question. “Who would do such a thing?”

It’s quite another thing to view such a scene knowing the answer to that question. Because you have done just such a thing.

This wasn’t just a murder. There are so many ways to kill a person. What was here was so… unnecessary for it to be just murder. This was a message. And I understood just as surely as if the perpetrator was right there, whispering it in my ear.

“I can get to you. I have already gotten to those you love. I will get the rest. You will be punished for what you have done. This, I did in your home and sanctuary. This, I can do anywhere. And I will."

If there is anything my old Da taught me, it was think like your enemy. Get inside their head. For someone in my trade, crime scene investigators are very much the enemy. So it’s not hard for me to think like one.

The bedroom door wasn’t forced. The perpetrator got this far without arousing suspicion or raising alarm. Who would Sarah allow into her bedroom? Who would you allow into yours?

There was a struggle. Sarah died fighting. Do not applaud. This means she died scared. And I suspect, it was unnecessary, which means it was deliberate. The attacker wanted her to be scared.

I’ve seen it before. Some of the trade come to enjoy their work. They get off on the power that comes from taking another human life. They want the victim to know who killed them. Who snuffed them. They relish those last moments of fear and futility. Among murdering scum, they are the very lowest of the low. More like feral animals than people.

It was a thinking animal that did this. The very worst sort of monster. If I have a fear, it is that this is my fate. Death would be preferable.

After the fight, something odd happened. Sarah’s body was moved. I’m certain of it. Either that, or something the size of a person wallowed in the blood. Perhaps I merely prefer to believe that Sarah’s body was moved. That would make sense. A poor attempt at a frame up perhaps? With the body gone, I can’t tell for sure. Someone will have to get their hands on the crime scene investigators or their reports for that information.

With the body missing, I can’t tell you exactly how Sarah died. I found no evidence of gunplay. With that much blood, I would suspect that major arteries were slashed open. Knives perhaps? Again, the picture is very incomplete here and I know my apologies are a poor replacement for the facts.

There are other things that are bothering me about this. Who would Sarah trust enough to allow into the bedroom? Surely not Mr. Caliburn. She must have known he was with Hannah. His appearance without his daughter should have raised alarm bells, I think. And with his paranoia rivalling my own, I can only imagine that hand signs are as common a greeting in this household as “hi honey” is in others.

I remember my Da and I had a whole battery of secret codes and we only had to deal with mortal concerns. He would test me occasionally when I was very young, to insure I responded properly. Once he was convinced that the next test would end with me shooting him in the face, he was satisfied that his lessons had took.

Mr. Caliburn occasionally reminds me of my old Da. They would either have been thick as thieves or killed each other outright.

There is no way I can complete this investigation with only my own resources. There are just too many facts I can not get to. There are just too many unknowns for me to unravel this puzzle. I don’t like it but that is just the way it is.

So despite my policy of working solo, this is just one mystery I can’t solve on my own.

I know many if not most of you do not like or even respect me. I can live with that. Hannah and Mr. Caliburn cannot. Hannah is afraid and doesn’t even know where she is. Mr. Caliburn’s whereabouts are unknown. So for their sakes I am forced to ask for… help. Please.

Use whatever resources are at your disposal to fill in the missing puzzles pieces that I have not been able to provide. Call in your favours. Squeeze your contacts. Do whatever it takes, but do it soon.

Already, the trail grows cold.

If a cold blooded mercenary can do this much, for free I might add, what’s the reason your inaction? Is this a community or isn’t it?

What would Victor Lazlo do?

Copyright 2010, Dark Angel Productions

I am a predator in someone else’s territory.

And it’s making the wildlife uneasy.

The big dog isn’t patrolling, marking his territory like he normally does. Oh, he’s still around but he’s too involved with something else to be bothered with everything lower on the food chain.

All the scavengers thought they’d have the run of the place. Then I showed up and started sniffing around. At first, the wildlife thought I’d move along in short order. But I didn’t. I’ve been hanging around. So naturally they wanted to establish the pecking order.

What I did to the first pimp that got in my way established my position as an apex predator and the other scavengers scurry out of my way now.

The bottom feeders of the food chain don’t know what to make of me. I’m not like the big dog they’re used to. They know I’m just as dangerous but I’m not preying on them. Like just about everyone else with more power. And I’m not ignoring them either. To blend in, I’ve been dressing like them. I’ve been talking to them and listening to them. Occasionally I’ve even been helping them.

A little good will can pay huge dividends when you’re on a job like this one.

I should have known better to get cocky or too secure in my position in another dog’s territory. I’ve read his stories. I know what this place is like.

And it was a full moon cycle this past weekend.

Really, I should have seen it coming.

Now I understand why the big dog don’t like wolves in his territory.

Because of the way I was dressed, he probably thought I was prey. No doubt that is why he put his hands on me and tried to drag me into the alley. Oh, and he was brazen as all hell about it. The scavengers did nothing. They wanted the new dog out of the way. The prey were too scared. And of course, the big dog was somewhere else. I was on my own.

I didn’t recognize this wolf in sheep’s clothing right away. So when I grabbed his hand, I expected to break his wrist. While I did get a howl out of him, the fact that I didn’t bend his hand back at quite the angle I was aiming for combined with him not clutching it away from me to cradle it to his chest told me I was in for a rough time of it.

Right there in the street he revealed his true colors. Suddenly the place was deserted. He towered above me and rippled with muscles. He threw his head back and let out a howl that made the hairs on the back of my neck stand on end.

In the distance, there was an answering call.

And it wasn’t the big dog. More wolves in sheep clothing.

He looked back down at me, his lip curled into a half smile, half snarl. No doubt he planned to have some fun with me for daring to hurt him, even a little. Had he instead been paying attention to me, he would have seen the two knives glinting brightly in the moonlight. They had been concealed on my person but his dramatic presentation had given me ample time to prepare them.

You can’t back down when you’re fighting for territory. Not if you want the top dog spot. Both of my blades sunk deep into his hide.

The pain made him furious. He lashed out at me with claws the size of my head.

It was all rage and strength. No finesse. No skill And too slow. I easily ducked under the swing and jabbed into his ribs and arm pit.

More blood began to pour out of him but he didn’t seem phased. With ivory white teeth and fangs he made to bite me. They came close enough to puncture the lapel of my jacket. He tore the fabric away with a jerk of his head.

This time I plunged one dagger into his thigh while the other sliced a wide red arc across his chest. It caused him to stagger back.

There was a look of confusion on his face. How did the prey have claws of its own? Why wasn’t it scared? Why was he the one in pain?

From there the fight became pretty one sided as a flayed his hide. He was a brute and I’m sure if any of his lunges had connected it would have hurt. But the fact was that he was slow and unskilled. And I didn’t stop cutting him until he was quivering bits of flesh.

Hey, I had some frustrations to work out, okay?

“You better run.” It was one of the hookers, come out from the shadows. “They hunt in packs.”

There was another howl in the distance to punctuate her statement.

I would run alright.

All the better to hunt you with, my dear.

I’ve fought werewolves before. The last time was in the Canadian Rockies where I had two big advantages. The first was that I was at great range and had a high powered rifle. The second was that Shadowstalker and his team were serving as both excellent bait and distractions. And I must say, they fought both bravely and well.

All I had to do was line up my shots and take them. Sometimes it would drop the beast outright but more often it merely maimed them, allowing one of Shadowstalkers team to finish them off. It’s definitely my preferred way of handling things.

I wasn’t to be afforded either luxury in this battle.

Also, time was against me.

First thing I had to do was change out of my street clothes and into my ‘work’ clothes. Properly geared up and protected, my next objective was to find some high ground. When you have to fight, choose the terrain.

Thru my scope I saw them arrive at the scene. They had all shucked off their sheepskin. Good, now all the hunters were as they appeared. It’s better that way, in my opinion. No more pretence.

They started to sniff the air. No doubt getting ready to track me. Deciding that the biggest was also likely the alpha, I took my first shot. I was using a new rifle. I haven’t had time to have it modded the way I like. The scope wasn’t my first choice either but it had all the features I needed and had the supreme benefit of having been available during my recent resupply. Still both performed admirably and provided me with the head shot I was hoping for.

It was almost comical the way it went ass over tea kettle. I don’t think it’s pack mates got the joke. Or maybe they were frowning because much of the creatures brains had been splattered out across their faces. Faces that were all turned in my direction now.

Good. Another one went ass over tea kettle. Only got it in the shoulder though. It was still flailing on the ground so I ended it’s misery.

Then the charge began.

I knew it would be coming. It had happened in the Rockies. At one point, a bunch of the pack had broken away from Shadowstalkers team and charged my position. Only one of those had gotten close enough for me to smell it’s foul breath and I had taken it out with my shotgun.

These ones started out a lot closer than those one had. Nor did I expect the vertical walls of the building to slow them down any. It didn’t.

There was only time to take out one more of the beasts during that charge. Took the last two of my rifles shots to do it.

With a howl fit to wake the dead, the first one came over the edge of the roof. He was met with a double barrelled blast from my sawed off. The force of the hit knocked him backwards and for a moment he seemed to pause in mid air. I wouldn’t have been surprised if he had whipped out a wiley-coyote sign saying, “Help”. Instead he began his descent to the ground at gravities command.

Three more came up at the same time. I had both my pistols out and I riddled the middle one full of holes. Already dead, he fell backwards as well.

My pistols were knocked out my hands by the two remaining beasts. It was unfortunate but not unprepared for. My derringers knocked one of them back on it’s ass. It wasn’t dead but for the moment I only had one more to deal with.

I dare say I was graceful as I glided under the wolf’s monstrous haymaker and positioned myself behind it. While I moved, I drew my trusty twin blades. They were specially made for me just for times like this. I don’t know if these things have kidneys placed the same as humans do but based on its howl I guessed that if it walked away from this, it would be peeing blood for awhile.

Thru the furry of fur that was my sparring partner, I could see it’s pack mate start to stand. And I wasn’t done with this one yet!

My burly dance partner turned, only to be stabbed twice in the arm nearest to me. That probably contributed to his swing going wide and missing me.

Continuing to bob and weave around the creatures sledgehammer like arms, my knives darted out whenever there was an opening.

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw the other one begin to move to my side, trying to flank me. It was expected. I continued my carefully choreographed dance.

My flanker charged.

I leapt up and began to flip.

The charging wolf flew beneath me and over the roof’s edge.

My knives bit into opposite sides of my dance partners neck as I arced over him.

The massive beast landed face first on the roof.

I landed feet first, arms up stretched. Ten out of ten from all the judges, thank you, thank you!

No time to enjoy the applause in my mind though. I rush to my rifle and hand load a single cartridge. Leaning over the roofs edge I fire down in time to catch my would be killer while only half way back up the building.

He flailed his arms as he fell and bounced a couple of times when he hit bottom. Then he’s up and running away, along with his limping pack mate that I had hit with the shotgun earlier.

Exhausted, I collapsed for a moment. In the distance, there are sirens. No rest for the wicked. I gathered my stuff and found someplace else to be.

I still ache from it all. Had the terrain been less favourable to me, I would have been overwhelmed and killed. Two of the bastards have gotten away and based on the calls into the night, have told all their mates about me.

Why does the big dog do it?

People usually die before they become legends. I would just as soon keep Mr. Caliburn amongst the living for now.

I think I’ve been spending far too much time thinking about dreams and nightmares.

I’ve started having them myself. Nightmares that is.

This one is old and familiar. Like an old worn blanket. It’s rotted with holes in it and it stinks so bad a thousand washings couldn’t get it clean. Yet there’s comfort to be had in its embrace.

It always starts out the same way. I’m eighteen again. I’ve just found the target and worked out the best place to strike from. Even had the poor son of a bitch in my scope as I observed him coming and going. The escape route is planned as are two alternates. I’ve done a good job and my da will be so proud of me.

When I get back home, something is wrong. While closed, the door is insecure. Cautiously, I enter.

The first thing my mind registers is the blood. There’s a lot of it. More than there should be. My da’s body is on the floor but this isn’t how he died. He was shot. Only here and now, he’s been cut up. Slashed so badly I hardly recognize him as human. I’m reminded of the Werewolf I cut up recently.

“H-help me…” My god. Somehow he’s still alive. This has never happened before. With those wounds, he should be dead already. But he’s not. Oh, but he will be and there’s nothing I can do to stop what has already started. His life is pouring out onto the floor and laps at my toes.

His killer is still in the room. That’s a new one too. The bastard is standing over my da, two dripping knives in his hands. He has on a ski mask, a baggy sweater and cargo pants.

“P-please…” My da calls for me again and I look back to his face. It’s not his face anymore. It’s Mr. Caliburn’s. “H-help me, Hannah.”

I’m not Hannah.

The killer is laughing.

I lunge at the bastard. It doesn’t even occur to me to go for my piece. I’m too fast for him. He doesn’t expect such a suicidal charge. I’m under his arms before he can even swing his blades. Together we tumble to the floor. Blood splashes around us as we roll around in an intimate embrace of death. My tears do nothing to dilute the crimson staining my face.

He’s still laughing at me. Mocking me. I’m going to rip his damn face off. I claw at his mask, tearing it off.

The face I see is my own.

Neither waking nor screaming can ease the pain.

This is not going to happen again.

It ain't no thing, Miss Solstice.

This is the first time where Mr. Caliburn's ugly mug made an appearance or Hannah's name was called but I attribute that to how deep I'm getting into this investigation is all.

As for how the dream normally goes, reliving walking in on my da's body...

November, I think. I have it three or four times a year.

I'm just a little stressed right now is all.

When this is all over I'm headed to a beach to find some pretty things to play with.

You know that I take issue with your constant desire to repress your feelings and emotions and distract yourself with pretty things.
But I thought I'd remind you of it anyway.

Any good would end shortly after sobering up and the sex has stopped.
It always has.
It always will.

I was actually thinking of LA...

All those toned, tanned and sweaty bodies...

Yum!

But what's wrong with the Bimini Islands?

And Sebastian, I'm not ignoring you.

But if god hadn't intended for us to be distracted by pretty dimwits, he wouldn't have put them on the earth to amuse ourselves with.

Nemesis wrote:But if god hadn't intended for us to be distracted by pretty dimwits, he wouldn't have put them on the earth to amuse ourselves with.

You're just making shit up now.
If you applied half as much focus on your internal well-being as you do on this investigation....

... I would be a boring old man just like you.

But I am none of those things.

I'm not going to tell you that I told you so when you're psyche explodes.
You'll be painfully and acutely aware all by yourself of that fact.
Just don't loose my phone number because you're going to need it.

He's correct. Repressing emotions is simply unhealthy.

IF my psyche explodes, I doubt I'll live long enough to use that number, Sebastian.

Sorry to deny you the chance to say, "I told you so," even if you don't plan on using it.

Natasha wrote:He's correct. Repressing emotions is simply unhealthy.

Doesn't 'horny' count as an emotion? I plan to stop repressing that just as soon as I'm able. :p

It's like it's scripted you people. If I had a buck every time I heard that, I'd be really, really, really rich.
I'm going to make an assumption here and say that you take care of your physical health, you have to in your line of work. You probably don't smoke or do other things that would slow you down or make you more vulnerable or reduce your effectiveness. Yet you insist on ignoring your mental health and in doing so you're actively damaging it. You're perpetuating the cycles of repression and it's building up. You're now having nightmares, for instance. It's not going to stop all on its own. And it's certainly not going to go away by fucking sweaty beach bums.

Okay, fine.

What would you prescribe when this investigation is done?

I'm not ruling out the beach thing but I'm willing to listen to suggestions for additional forms of therapy.

I'm not saying don't go to the beach.
I'm saying that it shouldn't end there.

The most immediate concern is your stress management strategy.
Repress true feelings, distract with unrelated release of some pinned up energy.

In my younger days I worked with soldiers and spooks that had a difficult time coping with the unspeakable things they saw, did, or thought. It destroyed them and their families were often casualties as well.

And a bit of food for thought.
A warrior with a repressed youth is much more vulnerable to cracking and breaking than not.

skeptic wrote:And a bit of food for thought.
A warrior with a repressed youth is much more vulnerable to cracking and breaking than not.

Youth is for those who weren't born into a war not of their making. And even when that war ends, it just becomes too late.