Paranoid. If there was one thing he could honestly say he was feeling more than anything else, it was paranoia. He was sitting on the bed of another flea bag motel. Ever since everything had went down with the Vegas massacre and the burning of the tower Makavelli took off not knowing who to trust. He had escaped with his life but he didn't quite know what to do with it. He knew payback wasn't an option and he cherished his life too much to just throw it away in a hopeless effort. Also he felt like he owed it to the friends he made and the soldiers that fell to continue on for them.

But how? He had no answers to that question at this time and even though he knew he wouldn't find them at the bottom of the bottle of whiskey he was currently drinking that didn't stop him from continuing anyway. He knew what this feeling was, he'd read about it before. Survivor's remorse. He'd moved from motel to motel doing nothing but being on alert the whole time waiting for someone to come shooting. Eventually when things seemed like they calmed down and people started moving about again he'd taken to drinking to see if it would calm his nerves some.

He didn't really wanna think about how things had happened and what he would do next. He just wanted to forget for a little bit and get away from things and for awhile, he did. But as soon as he'd wake up after a bit of sleep all the memories and thoughts would come right back along with the paranoia. Whoever said 'war was hell' had no idea how on the money they were with that statement.

Makavelli figured after awhile it was time to get off his ass and go do something. He kept his head and profile low as he eventually got on a plane and flew out to LA. It was there that he went to visit his mother and give her some money to move into a better place. It was her that he was doing all this for. He never expected to find friendships and partners, he just wanted to grind for a better life for him and his family.

Visiting her did him some good. She reminded him who he was and to stay focused on his own goals. She told him about trials and things that would get in his own way but the best way to make use of his life and to honor the dead was to live on and become the best version of himself he could be. She didn't know exactly what it was that happened nor what he was into but she was no dummy neither. She knew there were only so many ways he could account the amount of money that he did in such a short amount of time. She was also keeping up track with the events happening in the world.

He promised her he'd be safe or as safe as he could while telling her goodbye before he left. He stayed local, renting himself an apartment in the city to further figure things out. He hadn't fully kicked the drinking to get himself some rest but he was in a better head space than he was before. Or at least he thought he was.

One night of drinking led to Makavelli doing some self reflection. As he sat on the floor by the bed in the room of his newly acquired apartment he questioned just what in the hell he was doing. Why was it he needed alcohol to help him relax and take the edge of to sleep? Why was he feeling so down over death and loss? Hell he grew up with it. Why was he even mourning in the first place?

He was never here to make friends. He knew there was truly no such thing in this business. Everybody was out for money, power, respect, status of some sort and some people were grimy enough to walkover their own grandmothers to get it. So what good was something like camaraderie in a world full of people like that? This was a dog eat dog world and that was no truer than in their line of work. It seemed like in a moment of someone showing him some light, showing him a little bit of love and warmth, he had lost himself. He had forgotten how truly dark this world could be and how it took some darkness to survive in it.

He got up off the floor with the rest of the bottle of whiskey he was drinking in hand. He went to the sink in his bathroom and poured out the rest of the bottle. He could say he was pouring it out for the dead but he felt like he had done enough for them. He poured out the alcohol because he was sick of relying on it like it was a crutch. It was time he start living and doing for himself again. He caught a look at himself in the mirror and saw the way he looked. The bags in his eyes from lack of sleep and restless nights. The sad frown that looked like it was etched on his face. He looked miserable. So what he did next would have surprised anyone. 

He laughed.

He laughed harder than he had in a good and long time. He laughed at himself for getting so caught up in his own feelings. He laughed for being so worried and he laughed for what he would've ended up becoming had he not realized how unlike himself he was becoming. Anybody else would've thought he had finally snapped, that he'd finally broken. In a way they wouldn't be wrong. He had realized he needed to do things differently but not forget the things that this and past experiences had taught him. And most importantly that no one was gonna look out for him or help him the way the way he could help himself. 

He splashed some water in his face and looked at himself in the mirror. His sad look was gone, replaced with one of new motivation and determination. It was time for him to stop moping and get out there and back to work. He knew exactly where to start. He wasn't dead yet. It was time for him to let the rest of the world know that as well.