For Those Who Care

Carmon could strangle Khailen just about now. This was the stupidest thing she ever could have come up with, but it had to work. It just had to.

Raylene had found details on an organization. One that was helping the enemy, smuggling chemicals across borders and weapons to bases the Delta Unit has already torn apart. Soldiers are getting armed, bombs being created. Russia is just two steps closer to getting what they want, and it can't happen.

So Carmon is here, her arm laced in Dakota's. She feels so exposed, her scars on display for everyone to see. She wears a tight black dress, one that ends just below her knees, black heels to match. She wears a white, fur scarf around her arms. A poor attempt to hide what she can't cover. She tried gloves, and it only made that familiar burn worse.

Her black hair is styled in a low bun, a few strands in her face. And god, somehow Khailen convinced her not to wear the mask. So even worse, all the scars on her jaw, cheeks, nose and lips are exposed. She can't wear makeup without making it worse. But thankfully, she plays the perfect part of a wealthy woman who was just at the wrong place at the wrong time. No one knows her face here. Not with her lack of tactical gear.

Dakota was dressed similarly. A nice suit with a tie. His hair is combed back, a smug look on his face. She scoffed and ignored him. This is the only time, only time, she will willingly let him hold her like this.

The whole goal of the mission is to listen. The event is a galla, one being hosted by the organization they're after. Their job is to stay as quiet as possible, remain undercover, and get as much intel as possible. They're looking for locations, stashes, future plans, anything. And maybe, they'll even find a weapon transfer gig in the area. That's a hopeful job.

All Carmon knows is that Raylene assured them that they weren't alone. Somewhere, there were faces that they didn't recognize. Allies. What unit? She doesn't know. Raylene didn't spill that much. But she spilled enough. They have friends here. Maybe if she watches enough, she'll catch sight of them.

(Just create a character and hop on in! If you know the other characters in The Delta Unit {Dakota, Hope, Raylene, Khailen, Dasee, Ect} feel free to use them or speak for them!)

There was a bug in his ear. Time to kill that.

> EOL: Keep your eyes on the ground. Supes sent hound dogs in different colors. If you sniff out each other, keep your nose out of it.

His least favorite thing was working without information. He knew, of course, in these matters it was often better not to know. Lying was an art but the best liars were those who didn’t have to lie at all. The best cover was sincerity, and cluelessness kept his unit from compromising the other. Problen was, they threw him half a bone. It would have been better not to know anything at all.

So, was this some kind of test? Or was this their way of covering their bases? Why send in one unit when you could send in two and have some assurance that your likelihood of success was doubled.

This was why Alexander wasn’t in upper management. Every decision they ever made pissed him off no matter what they did. He needed something to complain about. But he would never complain about the perks.

This event was stuffy, but the food was to die for, and the glass of champagne — what vintage was it? It was some of the finest he’d had in ages.

He swirled the bubbling liquid in its tall glass and leaned in to the woman across from him. Sabine Stravinsky, wife of Vladimir Stravinsky, representative of Russia’s Federation Council. It was easy, entertaining the neglected spouses of government officials with a small smile and the intermittent hum of agreement or affirmation. Poor Sabine had been going on for fifteen minutes now about her daughter’s tenuous relationship with her father. It really was quite engaging, but Alexander had to listen for the bits about Vladimir.

“I’m sorry, I’ve babbled your ear off,” Sabine apologized bashfully when she’d noticed her own voice.

“I was quite content to listen,” Alex said. “Though you have my sympathies, Sabine. Your husband sounds like a very focused, but distant man. Not uncommon with all of his responsibilities. I’m sorry for how it’s wounded Elya. She sounds like a sweet daughter.”

“It’s a shame she didn’t come tonight,” Sabine laughed lightly. “I would’ve liked you to meet her. She’s not far from your age. And your Russian is very good for a foreigner! She would be pleased.”

“Please, don’t injure me with flattery, Sabine,” Alexander teased. “How will I improve?”

“My husband would be better at that,” Sabine said. “He never minces his words. He’ll tell you the moment you open your mouth what he thinks.”

“Perhaps you should introduce me to him, then?”

Sabine laughed lightly, but got to her feet agreeably, with no resistance.

“Come, he’s across the room,” she said. “I think he’s about to take a smoke.”

As Alexander crossed the room, he gave one cursory sweep with his eyes, like any curious attendee would do. He noted that, of the grey heads in the room, there were just as many with youthful faces: but one woman briefly snagged his eyes.

That was a lot of scarring. Must have been a rather horrific accident.

He looked away just as soon, but the image stuck with him. Chemical burns were becoming unsettlingly more common, but something about that woman clipped his radar, and his gut.

Keep an eye on her. Keep your nose out of it.

He stopped at Sabine’s side, where she’d grabbed her husband’s attention.

“Vladimir, I’d like to introduce you to Mattias Sanchez, companion to Senator Garcia.”

Alexander - but for now, known as Mattias - shook the representative’s hand.

Dakota was talking on and on to someone who wasn't important. At least, to him they were. But they were bland, had no ring and Carmon just couldn't remember their name. She sighed, deciding to look around instead.

The walls were high, everything decked in gold and expensive designs. Tables sat to the side with food. Tons of it. Her thoughts drifted to the ruined villages she's seen. They needed this event more than the rich did.

The wine, however. That was a different story. Carmon wasn't a drinker, and she definitely wouldn't drink on the job, but the champagne wasn't her thing. The wine was. Perfectly red and aged just right.

She happened to catch sight of it. The look she received from some man across the venue. Tall, dark hair, tan skin . . . The way he looked at her. Was that sympathy? Disgust flashed in her eyes before she quickly shoved it down. She didn't want sympathy. Never did. She looks away, only to look up at Dakota.

"Darling, perhaps it'd be best to. . . find somewhere else to be?" She suggested, trying hard to mask her accent. It was harder than she thought.

Dakota looked down at her. They had to play the role of a married couple. They had to act it out.

"Do you not want to—" He started.

"I just don't want to talk." She cut him off.

His brown eyes searched hers for a minute before he took a quick sideglance of the nobody before them. Then he nodded.

"Right, of course. Pardon us." He said with a smile.

They started to walk. Taking a path through the people to find somewhere else to stand. She kept her eyes up. Nothing suspicious is happening. Better yet, she can't see anyone of high importance. Not to their mission.

"Legend, check your tracker." A voice said in her ear. Khailen. "You fell off the grid."

Carmon takes a quick glance down at her wrist. The bracelet is still there, the ruby shining bright. "Still there." She says softly, keeping her eyes forward.

"Check again, Lieutenant." Khailen repeats.

Carmon rolls her eyes, lifting her wrist. She twists at the gem. The tracker was in there. Somehow, Dasee had built it like that. "It's still there, Colonel." Carmon repeats.

There's nothing but static. There's no reply. Her brows furrow and she takes a glance up to Dakota, who's finicking with the small comm device. Their system is down.

Someone's got their systems off. The question is, who?

Alexander didn’t smoke. But he smoked today.

Vladimir was far more relaxed when sharing a cigar, but he was a typical politician: he had to dominate the conversation. First, he ranted about border patrol. His opinions were about as conservative as Alexander had expected, if not extreme when paired with wine-loosed lips. After giving his piece about the damned necessity of beaurocracy and then the stupidity of the Olympics, Sabine eventually excused herself. It wasn’t until then that Alexander realized Vladimir was worse than his wife. Sabine, at least, had some sense to stop her ramblings. But a man in power would never be told to: so he didn’t.

“I wish the public would stop heckling us about Chemical ZE. Do you know how many petitions we throw away at my office? Pah! The peons don’t understand what they’re petitioning. If only they’d petition to understand.”

Finally.

Vladimir took a long drag of his cigar as he leaned on the outer railing. The venue was a massive penthouse held aloft on a mountainside. Remote, and private. The air outside should’ve been biting, but the balcony was heated, and enclosed with bullet-proof glass, overlooking the cliffside and snow. The windows were framed to withstand Russia’ winds, with no obstacles to break the impact of the exposed overview.

Now, Vladimir was mulling on the relevant: recent news.

Spain had discovered a new chemical in the depths of the Sierra Nevada. They called it Chemical Zain, or ZE. It put the formerly quiet country on the map amidst the second cold war - over chemical weaponry.

Zain was devastatingly radioactive. More than Uranium. More than the smoke of Chernobyl. It was already eating Spain apart, and Russia was trying to swoop in to “stop the spread.” Anyone with sense knew that was barely half of the whole truth.

“They object to Russia’s proposed intervention in Spain’s crisis?”

“Our people will put up with Xerafide’s flesh-eating, but they hear ‘radiation’ and it raises the hairs of an old flea-ridden cat we all forgot. It unearths our deepest shame, and deepest fear. What the people don’t want is their cancer coming here. And I cannot blame them, but…”

“If anyone knows how to manage their crisis, it’s someone who’s walked a similar path before,” Alexander hummed.

“Pah. Tell that to the ones too young to remember recent history. The men my age know the cost of negligence. We have to intervene.”

Which was another partial truth. Russians had compassion for the Spaniard’s plight, but Russia wanted to add Zain to their collection. Xerafide and Krynazyl were already in their arsenol. With Zain added, there would be another World War. Though, perhaps, this was always inevitable. It was just a matter of time.

“You bear a heavy burden,” Alexander empathized beside the wearied man.

“What a time to be alive, hm?” Vlad huffed. He passed Alex the cigar.

“What a time to be alive, indeed.”

And he stood with him for many moments after, both sobered into silence. Alexander eventually prodded a mite more, only to get Vladimir’s personal statement on the consequences of Russia lending its aid. To that, he was emphatic about one thing: The United Powers had their eyes on Russia, and so did the rest of the world. Every nation was holding its breath, and Vladimir had no hope for surviving the exhale. The implications were grim.

Vladimir was a defeated pawn, just like the peons he ridiculed. He had no hope for change. But Alexander understood.

“Shall I cheer you up, then, or leave you space to breathe? Perhaps I could send Sabine your way.” Alex offered.

“Don’t bother,” Vladimir said. “She’s happier in there.”

A beat.

“… Tell her to bring me a glass of wine.”

Alexander nodded. “That, I can do.”

Stepping back into the warm room, Alexander was met with a fresh wave of music rolling from the stage. It was a small ensemble, playing classical arrangements for the night. Alex recognized Rachmaninov halfway through the piece, and halfway to the bar. Sabine was talking to another woman when Alex tapped her shoulder and informed her of her brooding husband.

Grateful, she flagged down a server for wine. Tired, Alexander made his way to the open bar.

So it was true that Russia intended to follow through on obtaining Zain. That wasn’t the news he wanted to hear. It was tantalizing, if he removed all humanity from it.

But radiation was what was killing his mother, slowly. That was what gave her cancer.

He hated when work hit something personal.

“Can you do a Sazerac?” he ordered. The bartender nodded and reached for a bottle.

Leaning on the bar, Alexander let out a deep sigh. He’d circle back to Vlad later. For now, he wanted a more pleasant conversation.

Panic had begun to swell in her chest but she forced that down too. Whatever was happening, they needed to sort it out. HQ was off. They're alone. One look from Dakota says it all. His eyes had gone cold, he didn't have that smug grin anymore.

She watched as he lifted his eyes, brief recognition flashing. She looks back over her shoulder. It's that same man. She looks back at Dakota.

"You know him?" She asked, letting her accent go this time.

"No. I thought I did."

He was already releasing her arm, shoving past her to walk to the island that was there. She quickly tried to keep up. She kept silent. That determination in his eyes was one she knew not to stop. But she couldn't ignore it either. Dakota may be playful, but when he has his eyes set on something . . . Well, there's a reason Khailen grabbed his file.

When he settles into a chair next to the man, she stands next to him. They can't box him in, that might make him run. The static in her comms makes her feel uneasy. They don't know anything. She doesn't like that. She likes to be informed.

Dakota's hand inches across her waist, his arm wrapping around her hip to rest. She winces, his touch and the heat of his palm way too close to a burn that she hadn't treated yet. So she discreetly lifts her hand, pushing his down a little so it's less painful. Despite the pain, somehow, she managed to mask it.

The bartender squirms at the sight of her, shifting on his feet. It's common for that to happen, the unease of being near someone like her. It's worse when she wears her full tact gear. She can't help but smirk.

Dakota raises his free hand, eyes dropping down. "Make it easy. Just a Godfather." He said, watching their every move.

Carmon leans her head back, tilting slightly to glance at the other man. He doesn't look political. But she can see it, the hidden chain of what just might be dogtags. She looks away, back to the bartender.

She didn't want a drink, so she wouldn't bother. She'd play the part of a silent wife. One in submission, just like all the others. That's her job, no matter how much she hates it.

She lets one arm slide against Dakota's shoulders, a scarred hand resting there. The red was harsh against her pale skin, it was unnatural. Definitely a chemical. Her other hand rested on the opposite side of him, gently squeezing.

"You uh . . . You have ties with the Stravinsky family?" Dakota finally voices out, taking the glass from the bartender. He swirls the glass before taking a drink, his eyes locked straight.

They need intel. They don't know this man . . . They can only hope he's one of the friendly's.

They can't leave this place empty.

The Sazerac slid across the bar just as the couple did beside him. Alexander drew it towards him, sipping from the red drink; the mix of whiskey, absinthe, and bitters. Intuition clicked the moment he saw the woman; scars and all, but dressed as a wealthy burn victim. She clung to her partner’s side.

Keep your nose out of it, echoed in his memory.

Problem was, his nose was already here. Sniffing.

“Loose ones,” Alex said. “Strangely, Vladimir’s the more approachable of the two. What piques your curiosity?”

Dakota hummed. "The look you had in your eye when you came back in and redirected his wife." He said, finally looking over at him. His gaze is sharp. But it's nothing like hers.

Dakota has eyes as brown as the Earth. Carmon. . . One look has anyone shaking. Icy blue, sharp and cold. Calculative. Nothing gets passed her. She looks over again, trying to analyze what he might be. Who he might be.

She leans down, her lips to Dakota's ear.

"Watch him and watch your words. He's got a tag. He might be military personnel." She says softly. Dakota tilts his head to the side.

"Would we happen to know which branch? Unit?" He asks.

Carmon scowls as she stands up straight again. Her silence is the only answer he needs. They don't know. They weren't told what units were allies. They don't trust him. Yet.

“Ah. You’re a people watcher,” Alexander smiled. “I’m sure you can imagine most sincere conversations about politics these days become more sobering than anything. Suffice to say I needed a drink. Especially so when there’s little I can do about any of it.”

He took a sip, and a deep breath through his nose. He wondered how long it would take to tease this out: a game of cat and mouse. To trust or not to trust. He was sure he could slip in a code word somewhere soon. He just had to lead into it.

“Can’t say I ascribe to a lifetime of ‘eat, drink, and be merry,’ but what else is an evening like this good for, really?”

Dakota chuckled. "No, there isn't much. But imagine the kind of things someone can slip through." He tilts his head, raises a brow. "After all, everyone is so..." He lets his voice trail off.

"Distracted." Carmon finishes. Her eyes are elsewhere. She's focused on something, it's best to let her be.

Dakota nods once, turning in his seat to face the man, a sly smile across his lips.

"Have you come here alone?" He asks. "I must say, you seem awfully familiar."

Well, the question was smart enough to be revealing, but too stupid to be a threat. This had to be another unit, and if they were trying to intermingle like this on pupose, they must have been in hot water.

“Have you been to Huatulco?” Alexander joked. “Or maybe you know me more for the body I shadow: Senator Garcia.”

He paused to swivel his glass and tilted his head with a soft smile.

“But you’re right. I think we might know each other from way back. Did you live in San Francisco? I went to school there. Did a lot of acting classes. I feel like we ran into each other at the Two Step bar a few times when I was trying stand-up. That, of course, never went anywhere.”

The whole gab was just to slip in the key phrases: Two Step and stand up. If the agent knew the handbook, he’d remember the quiet code of confirmation. If not, Alexander was about to have the most boring rehearsal of fake personal history in his life.

Dakota hummed. Carmon's grip had tightened on his shoulder. She knew the code. Dakota glanced up at her before looking back at his glass.

"Yes, I remember. I was positioned on a small base there. That bar was a good past time, wasn't it." His eyes glistened as he shifted his gaze to meet Alex's. Sharp . . . Understanding. Carmon sighs, looking down at Dakota.

"8 o'clock." She says. She looks in that direction, but remains discreet. "I have to use the rest room, love." She said simply after.

Then she's moving, walking away towards that direction. Indeed, there was a bathroom over there, however, there was also a man in a suit. Someone who caught her eye.

Dakota watches before he turns. "Perhaps you should tell me more about the Stravinsky family." He says with a smile.

“Well, Mrs. Stavinsky almost tried to set me up with her daughter,” Alexander joked. He took another sip of his glass. “Can’t say I’m interested in marrying into Russian politics, but it would certainly be a choice.”

Alexander briefly flicked his eyes to follow the man’s wife.

“Mattias, by the way. Just in case you forgot,” he said, extending a hand. “Your name?”

Dakota took the man's hand in a firm hold, his palm rough from years of use. "Ramirez," he says. A last name. A first name would completely blow his cover. "And that," he looks over his shoulder towards the woman who play's the role of his wife. He only chuckles.

Anyone in the military industry would know who she is, either from the look in her eyes or the scars across her skin. She's only lucky the political world ignores her status, or they'd be tossed out already.

Carmon Black is no joke. With the name of "Legend" rolling around the tongues of units, people fear being on the opposing end of her and her team. She's ruthless, cold, some would even say bitter. She doesn't care if you beg, if you carry the wrong colors, you're an instant target to her. And her bullets always hit their targets.

Dakota turns back to the man, smiling bright. "I swear, she doesn't bite. She's nice . . . Sometimes."

All he can do is be a distraction while Carmon chases down whatever she saw. Until then, it's a waiting game.

Alexander hummed with amused agreement, but his gut told him something was wrong.

“Sometimes is better than never, at least,” he offered. “But blink twice if it’s a hostage situation and you need help.”

It was a joke, but it also wasn’t. This would be his only offer to Ramirez’s cry for help.

Dakota laughed, smiling genuinely. The sound was heavy but full.

"It's not a hostage situation. I would be terrified if it was. That, and I probably wouldn't be alive right now." He said, leaning his arms over the table. He cradles his drink in his palms, running a finger over the rim of the glass. "She's . . . She's amazing, if you see past all of her walls. She see's things we don't in people, and her defensive side is what saves us half the time. I can't tell you how many times she's been the reason I breathe another day."

Carmon, however, makes her way outside of the building. The garden outside is beautiful, full of places to hide. In the dark of the night, she catches the glimpse of a shadow shooting past. She turns to face it, the jewels of her heavy earrings jingling softly with the movement.

"I suggest you stop hiding, unless you intend to play cat n' mouse." Carmon said, not even trying to hide the accent anymore.

The cool night air feels pleasant on her skin, the chill doing just enough to ease some of the burn. One of her hands slowly goes to her waist before she remembers her lack of her utility belt. She wants to curse at Khailen. She's too used to having her items on her, not half way across the city.

"It'd be easier if you step out before things get ugly." She walks slowly down the path, her heels clicking softly on the stone beneath her. She lets her hands fall to her sides, her eyes locked on the rose bushes she saw the shadow rush into.

But then she see's the shadow on the other side. She turns there, her eyes trying to track any movement. Whoever this is . . . They're toying with her. And she's getting bored of it quickly.