A Web of Lies, A Rainbow Six Story

Part 9: Mental Fractures

Marco's POV

Pain. Old, familiar, almost comforting to me. It wraps me in a blanket of shattered glass, pulling me down into an abyss of eternal hazy darkness. The abyss calls to me, longing to swallow me whole, to free me from all the endless miseries of life. I float weightlessly down towards the inky black sea of nothingness, wanting nothing more. Warm light glows from behind me, and I turn to face its source, curious. A lone figure stands before me, bathed in a beautiful, golden light. A woman. I can't quite make out any details about her, but something about her presence puts me at ease. She means me no harm. The figure moves towards me, taking my hand and gently guiding me away from the abyss.

My eyes snap open as I bolt upright, looking around in a panic. Where am I? What is this place? A machine beeps rhythmically nearby, regular intervals of silence followed by short clipped bursts of sound. I'm in a soft bed, surrounded by a clean white curtain on all sides. The memory of what happened crashes over me like a wave. The bank. Terrorists. Fighting the bomber. Pulling IQ out of the rubble. I realize that I must be in Rainbow's Infirmary, though that doesn't confuse me any less. Who brought me here? Why? I push those questions aside. It doesn't matter. I look next to me to find a neat stack of clothing on the table by the bed. My clothes. I change into them, wincing in pain, and then slip through the curtain to find that I'm not the only one here. IQ lies in a bed nearby, still unconscious. I walk over to her and gaze down at her for a moment. My head tilts to one side as I regard her unmoving form. So helpless. It would be so easy. 

The darkness rises within me in mere seconds. There was no warning. Only an onslaught of fury. A barrage of hatred. An inescapable desire to see her dead. An animalistic scream of primal rage tears through my mind, shattering any coherent thought. The next thing I know, I'm over her, my hands wrapped around her neck. The pressure doesn't let up, but do I want it to? My hands squeeze tighter as I stare down at her through eyes of roiling darkness, my teeth gritted. And then, in a flash, it's over. I throw myself backwards, away from IQ, tripping over myself in my haste. I fall heavily to the floor and crawl frantically away from her until my back hits the wall. My mind reels at the thought of what I nearly allowed to happen. But even as disgust and self-loathing rip through me like a maelstrom, I can still feel a part of me screaming to take her worthless life, to take all their lives. To rip and tear and massacre everyone on the base, to bathe myself in their blood. To burn this whole world to ashes. I raise my arms and stare at my trembling hands, picturing the blood covering them. I press the heels of my palms against my eyes, my breaths ragged and uneven. I lean my head forward and snap it backwards, slamming into the wall behind me with a furious growl. Again and again, I slam into the wall, the pain like an anchor, keeping me in control. Finally, I stop, pushing myself to my feet and storming out of the Infirmary, slamming the door behind me, the sound echoing off of the walls around me.

I walk alone to the Mess Hall, wondering what time it is. I walk through the doors to find it packed with operators, all chatting and laughing, the words swirling together to form a whirlwind of noise. Nobody notices me, so I walk silently along the wall to the counter and grab a small plate of food and a couple of beers. I turn around to leave before anyone sees me, but I'm too late. The French Medic stands behind me with a disapproving frown, Thatcher close behind him. "You should be resting," the Medic says. "Why are you not in the Infirmary?" "I'm fine," I reply. The Medic tsks in disapproval, but turns and walks back to his table. Thatcher, however, steps closer to me, standing inches from my face. I stare him down without so much as a twitch. The room around us goes silent as people begin to notice what's happening. Thatcher glares into my cold grey eyes, trying to intimidate me. He fails. Finally, he steps aside, allowing me to pass, but before I can, he holds up his right hand, a familiar gold and silver chain dangling from his fingers. My heart freezes at the sight of it. "I think you dropped something boy," he says. My eyes dart from the necklace to his face, trying in vain to guess at his intentions. Thatcher stares me down for another long moment before he finally turns his palm up and offers the necklace to me. "I found it in the street after you pulled Monika out of the rubble," he says, his sincere eyes holding mine. "I figured that it must have fallen out of your pocket when you collapsed. I thought I would hang onto it for you until you woke up." I take the necklace carefully from his open hand and stuff it quickly into my pocket, my breaths coming a little easier. Thatcher puts a gentle hand on my shoulder, careful to make no threatening movements just in case. "I'm sorry for what I said on the helicopter lad," he says. "And for what it's worth, you have my respect. And my trust." I nod quietly and grab my food and beer, walking silently out of the Mess Hall, all eyes on my back as the whispers follow me through the door.