"Sweet Sorrow"

Sergio couldn't quite breathe.

His lungs, it seemed, weren't properly coordinating to their usually simple function anymore. It took him a great deal of thinking to perform the suddenly tricky task of inhaling and exhaling, in fact, than he'd ever thought to be possible before. Sweating, curled slightly on the passenger seat of the accelerating RV after long ago getting rid of his tie in search of some relief, Sergio felt growingly suffocated, claustrophobic, and strangely numb all at once.

There were tear tracks still drying on his cheeks, that despite having been swept off obsessively with shaky fingers from underneath his glasses, kept stubbornly flooding his vision and escaping down the corners of his eyes faster he could ever wipe, and so he gave up, turning towards the window in lieu of keeping some illusion of privacy from Marsella's taciturn presence on the driver seat. The man had come to him nearly two hours later, long after all patrols cars stormed off the forest area in which he'd hidden. When soon as Sergio had climbed rather weakly down his tree to land on wobbly feet, in such a blurry vision he'd have no sense of depth any longer, he'd nearly fell onto his knees immediately, again, if not for Marsella's arms grabbing and practically carrying him out that site before he'd stumble completely apart.

Which he did, though he had very little memory of it, as soon as the other man tossed him rather perceptively onto the back seat as he started shaking, closed all doors and drove off without sparing Sergio— Professor, to him, he'd only ever been Sergio in this madness of a plan to her, truth be told— a second look until they were mostly out of the danger zone for sure.

Once Marsella glanced behind himself, though, he found out he'd probably shouldn't've, and regretted having caught a glimpse of Professor in his misery immediately on sight, promptly averting his gaze back to the road ahead. There was little he could do not to be uncomfortably aware he was currently in charged with the safety of the very mastermind of this plan, though, his leader, who seemed out of commission for good and very acutely alike to a frightened puppy he'd once retrieved from the wreckage aftermath of a bomb, back at his war days— pathetic and traumatized for life, the puppy had died rather quickly from refusing to eat, which didn't sound promising at all. Marsella shifted on his seat at the memory, unsure of how to deal with having the leader of this group falling apart on his back seat, when he of all people was only ever good at following orders but couldn't grasp the prospect of not having anyone telling him whatever exactly he'd need to do, and how to do so, in very specific details as he was already used to with Professor himself.

Pale and shaking and crying, although silently for the most, Sergio had curled around himself into this vague shape of a man, laying on his side like a little kid with his hands pressed tightly to his ears, his eyes closed shut behind crooked glasses as if to keep all the monsters away, completely blind and deaf to the couple times Marsella tried calling him out along the way.

Despite not being particularly interested in other people, less even their business, Marsella wasn't stupid enough to not be able to put two and two together and guess Lisboa's absence meant no good, at all, and that whatever had been made of her had messed with his leader's buttons for good. As he drove them towards the safe house, Marsella was already weighting, in his usual lack of compassion fashion, how well should it bode if he'd attempt threatening some sense back into Professor's head— which they simply couldn't afford being shut down, not with the damn madness the rest of the team was facing inside the bank right now.

Marsella was surprised, though, once he pulled by the small warehouse designed for their safe house and glanced at the rearview mirror to find Professor already sitting up, somewhat recomposed as he cleaned his glasses using one end of his suit, hands shaking badly as he'd wipe any traces of crying from his cheeks carefully, any lasting emotion carefully removed from his features. Was it then that the man made eye contact with him, for the very first time since Marsella had come to his rescue. Showing gloomy irises almost pitch black, a dull shine that even though teary spoke volumes on violence and hatred, Professor had the look of a warrior about him— a look Marsella recognized for having displayed it many times himself, although the stiff restraint that man showed felt to him suddenly frightening and very unsettlingly alike the looks of a predator, unpredictable as in more than a simple revenge desire could ever bode.

"I believe we'll need the guns right now." Professor spoke, rather suddenly, although his voice sounded even quieter as he put back his glasses and cleared his throat after a moment of pause "The bulletproof vests too, I suppose." he looked up at Marsella after pushing his glasses up his nose, head tilted to the side "You shall wear one every day, no matter what. We can't afford any more casualties right now."

And Marsella nodded, for he could handle that. Having clear orders reassured him, even if Professor's behavior did the opposite, and so he dropped his worries with the ease only a war mercenary could, immediately, prepared to die any other day to come as he was always prone to be. He and Professor popped the doors open and followed outside in absolute silence, the second seeming to have regained complete control of his legs and trembling hands as they opened the metal doors to the storage and got inside, flicking the lights on and looking around for everything they'd need to take on their next change of vehicles intended.

The RV occupied most of the room, like Professor's abandoned one had in another very similar storage many hours before, and so the man stood— much to Marsella's utter abstraction as he shuffled straightforwardly for the carefully stashed bags of supplies ands clothes around the place— silent and practically unblinking as he drank into the sight of the twin vehicle to the one he'd shared with Raquel in the days before, recording sharing the same warm bed, eating and showering and planning together with the woman he loved while holding his breath and listening to the painful pounding of his heart. It occurred at Sergio for the hundredth time that day that they should've simply taken the home on wheels into that road trip she'd so enthusiastically suggested, to someplace else beautiful enough to make her amazed, a romantic spot that'd perhaps kick enough courage in him to finally kneel and unpocket that ring he'd been carrying around for her over nearly three months now.

As long as they'd be together and far away as possible from this hellish reality, it'd be worthy, all the others and their freedom and their fucking gold be damned, blown to the airs like the policemen the radio news informed him of his orders outcome not so long ago.

Closing his eyes, Sergio took a deep inhale of air, releasing it calmly through his nose, in attempts of slowly down his pounding heartbeats to a pace that didn't make him dizzy on his feet and so damn near to a panic attack as he felt right now. But even this calming process was trimmed in Raquel's presence, the memory of the many times they'd practice breathing control together, holding each other's hands while sitting face to face underneath the warm sun, still so vivid he almost felt the silk and familiarity of her touch, as if invisible hands cradled his face the way she used to whenever he'd attempt avoiding eye contact for too long, bringing his gaze to find love and fierceness inside her brown chocolate ones.

"Don't worry, Cariño", Sergio heard the impossible sound of her voice at the back of his mind, real enough for him to picture her leaning into his shoulder, tiptoeing like always, her smiling lips full of confidence and reassurance as she'd whisper by his ear "We'll work this through, together. Everything will be alright."

Except it wouldn't, ever again. Except they weren't together anymore, nor would ever be.

Except, she was dead.

Raquel was gone.

Sergio's eyes snapped open, all his efforts into calming down fleeting in useless shreds behind himself as he launched into hasty steps, each growing more unstable than the previous, his legs wobbling weakly as he made around the RV leaning heavily on its side, short of breath, barely making through the vehicle's door before his knees finally buckled beneath himself. He stumbled inside, half falling forward and closing the door by dropping his body staggering against it, hyperventilating onto his hands and knees over the carpeted floor. Perspiration shone to his temples as he grabbed his shirt where his heart seemed to be trying to claw its way out through, his breathing wheezing poorly inside his burning lungs, his vision blurred through both flooding tears and the loss of his glasses, that had slid down his nose and laid fallen on the floor, as the endless terrifying sound of gunshots replayed inside his head over and over again, nonstop.

He thought he could throw up, then, if he'd have anything in his stomach to expel at all. He did retch plenty though, making gagging and moaning sounds that soon brought Marsella's fist pounding to the RV's door, alarmed "Profesor, is everything alright in there?"

Swallowing convulsively, Sergio shook his head, pressing the palms of his hands to his eyes to contain the stream of tears flooding out. No, nothing was alright, nothing could ever be right once again—

"Yes. I'm… I'm alright." he shouted back, or tried to, in a shaky tone that sounded anything but fine and came out muffled as a whimper through his trembling lips. Clearing his throat, he braced himself, trying again "I'm fine, Marsella. Just... make sure everything is on place, all equipment in good function. Pack as many ammunition you can. I'll be… I'll be out soon."

"Alright." Marsella sounded anything but convinced, but soon enough and he left, the sound of his steps shuffling away.

Sergio relieved a sigh, picked up his glasses with such badly shaking hands he tried thrice before putting them on, using the seat of the vehicle's inside table set to pull himself up, wiping his wet cheeks aimlessly on his sleeve as he tried to catch his breath. Gulping air in big gasps, he struggled with his jacket until it fell to the floor, moving hastily forward, stumbling half bent over the seat as he tried to put his mingled thoughts back together somehow. When his roaming gaze fell over the two go-bags left over the compact kitchen counter, though, he felt blood rise rushing in his ears as he recognised the blue one in which Raquel had packed some clothes and emergencial belongings to a possible escape for herself, set aside the one he'd packed for himself.

Sergio stumbled towards it, features pale as a ghost's as he went for immediately unzipping Raquel's one frantically, his mouth twisting in a pained line as he dug his hands inside to find a few of her favorite clothes neatly folded, flooded in her perfume and all the memories he couldn't fight back. Eyes closing, he pressed a few oversized t-shirts to his cheek, the ones she'd preferred sleeping into overnight, overwhelmed into the scent of her favorite soap brand and the orange shampoo that still clung to the fabric same as he did it himself.

He eyed the white long sleeved shirt still inside the bag with a gulp, immediately dropping the clothes he'd held in favor of grabbing it, rubbing his thumbs over the silk as the lump stuck to his throat grew and grew, as if about to choke him to death. She'd stolen this shirt from him perhaps about an year ago without the least bit of shame, and Sergio would always know whenever he'd behaved specially well as she'd wear it, and nothing else, to sleep at night. Its fabric had an irregular light stain of a light color around the collar, from a sunny day in which their attempted dinner setting on the makeshift cushion bed of their filthy little boat had ended up in laughing kisses and that awful cider bottle Raquel had made him bought— adamant on building thoroughly good memories over the mixed ones from their past— half spilled all over each other even before they got to actually drink any of it. A stain that, despite never coming off after several washes, apparently made, in Raquel's cheesy view, the shirt into her very new favorite somehow.

Closing his eyes, Sergio allowed the memory of their shared laughter flood his senses, a weak little smile twitching his lips as he recorded the feel of her warm body between his arms so vividly his heartbeats pounded against his ribs, holding his breath as he reminisced feeling that sweet tension inside his stomach that usually came with needing Raquel so badly he'd oversee the whole damn boat setting on fire as long as he'd have her mouth at reach.

Remembering what it felt like touching her, breathing in her scent, listening to her heartbeats. Every aspect of loving and being loved so thoroughly by her, of falling in love so hard and instantly his so called genius brain turned completely clueless on the depths of his feelings until he'd have no other choice but to love that beautiful strong woman till the end, his twenty-year-old plan be damned and all. Sergio remembered what was like to have Raquel within arms reach, to watch her, alive and laughing and teasing, fierce to her very bone marrow, so much more admirable, worthy than he'd ever dream of being, a loving daughter and mother that'd go, had been through hell for her family and would've endured a hundred times worst if it'd come to it…

… and he felt old, suddenly, so very much older than his forty-five years of pseudo-living could bear, as his anger rouse twice as stronger inside his chest compared to the aftermath of his father's death. He felt his old vengeance desire creeping to the surface with unsurprising ease, almost like a physical thing, this clutcher he'd already been used to hold onto for dear life that now felt like a hundred-pound weight pulling him down the ocean bottom he'd happily grab onto till the end.

He imagined Paula, then, and his eyes snapped open, red and shining with unshed tears. The shirt slid from his fingers, fell on the table, and Sergio grasped the seat so hard his knuckles turned white, numb, imagining himself seating that bright little girl down to stare inside her clever brown eyes and let her know her mother died, that her grandmother, who could no longer hold a proper conversation without being dragged so many years back into her past, wasn't a mother any longer but would never quite understand the magnitude of her daughter's absence at all— because life wasn't fair, and the things you'd love would always be taken away first.

Once again, Sergio exhaled. Very slowly, through his nose, the way his father had taught him to so many years ago, when controlling his breathing properly meant independence from an oxygen mask for a little bit longer, holding back his recurrent panic attacks from only imagining what being trapped in a hospital bed with a respirator piper stuck down his throat for the rest of his young life would've felt like. He released his grip onto the seat gradually, letting that biological control fool his emotions for the time being, allowing his heartbeats to slow down as his thought process refined to that very specific, clinical state of mind he'd force himself into before a chess match or the careful execution of a plan, when whatever he felt didn't matter at all, nor would have any sort of use to the task he'd have to perform ahead.

Looking down at the open duffel bag in front of him, he searched for the bundle he knew it'd be inside, wrapped tightly into an old towel, which he took out and laid on the table to pull the fabric aside and reveal the gun and magazine packed inside. It was a Glock, Raquel's personal choice for a backup sidearm, that Sergio weighted in his hand recording how hard she'd tried to dissuade him into packing a similar weapon for himself, begging that he'd have the least bit of common sense of realizing they'd need any resource at hand to protect themselves for the trial ahead, and stop being such a bullheaded of a man all the damn time. He smiled tightly while inserting the magazine on with an expertise he'd rarely display around fire weapons, imagining how hard of a time she'd give him if she'd been there by his side, watching him admit she was right all along— not an exception to how any discussion would usually turn out in their relationship, being fair enough. Being aware of the weight of the loaded gun, however, added a new sense of dread to his pain he did not expect, and his smile faded quickly, for having the weapon in his grip felt so odd and at the same time so familiar he had to resist the need to set it down and step away almost immediately.

He did not like guns. He'd told Raquel why, not so many nights ago, when at the brink of initiating the heist she'd finally asked him that much, clever enough to catch him unguarded in a lazy morning as they laid, naked and entwined and quite content in each other's arms. He'd then told her of his many foster homes after his father's death, when Berlim was cities away and still very much a teenager being tossed around his biological father's family, having lost the father he'd chosen by heart and that they both had lost, and how poorly he'd adapted to each of the families that'd taken him in. In this particular home, perhaps the third or the fourth on a row, he'd be faced with a foster dad who was not satisfied with having a boy too fond of reading and barely talkative, a man that'd love hunting for sport and soon became adamant in making the kid more manly by dragging him along into the forest as well.

Twelve-year-old Sergio had been entrusted to a hunting rifle almost his size, a monster fire weapon he'd at first been terrified of, then belatedly, after much being pressured into repeating the task of loading the gun enough times to make his small fingers hurt and numb, realized himself quite competent in shooting off a bunch of soda cans for a boy who wore thick glasses and could barely hold the shotgun barrel above the ground on his own. He'd never been prepared for the actual hunting part of the activity, however, which involved killing and skinning something alive for that matter— and when he'd failed quite purposefully in shooting at a clueless deer far ahead, he'd never really expected his foster dad to strike the animal down with a precise shot to its middle, successfully causing it to stumble on its side but didn't killing it right away. No, the deer was still very much alive as the foster dad dragged a struggling Sergio by the arm close enough to see it breathless, squirming and thrusting its limbs in the bloody mess of leaves and guts spread everywhere around their feet. The boy had seen its wide-eyes rolling backwards in pain and immediately bursted into tears— which didn't dissuade his foster dad from ordering he'd take the mercy shot to the animal's head, nor from promising they'd leave it there for more bleeding and suffering until it'd die on its own, if he didn't do as said.

And so Sergio took the shot that traumatized him for life from any fire weapons, regretting bitterly never being able to summon enough guts to shoot the man standing besides him instead, many times over in the couple years that'd follow ahead— for his foster dad had as strong of a liking for his booze as he'd have towards his guns, which he'd often use to terrorize the household whenever he'd decide using his fists was no longer worth breaking a sweat.

Sergio remembered Raquel's wrath on his behalf, of how gently she'd cradled his face in her hands, the fierce and hurt look shining inside her loving brown eyes telling him how deeply she understood of what he'd been through; of how she'd touched her forehead to his in that intimate gesture of theirs, murmuring how she wished she could protect the child he'd once been from all the harm in the world softly against his lips. And he flexed his fingers around the gun, the sweet sweet memory of her presence flowing through his veins like poison and medicine at the very same time, his chest aching like he'd never felt before, features crumpling tightly as he pressed his fingers to his eyes hard, trying to somewhat contain the flooding emotions threatening to burst him in half from the inside.

Marsella's knock at the RV's door made him jump, his conscience wavering poorly back to reality as he attempted recomposing himself before gingerly reaching for the handle. Oddly glad that the mercenary stared him down with nothing but apathetic professionalism before he walked in, despite his obvious bloodshot eyes and shaky stance, Sergio motioned where the bags he carried along should be dropped and put himself on the move for the hidden spot where they kept the vehicle's keys, tossing them into the other man's waiting hands with a nod.

"You'll come with me halfway there, then we'll split apart." Sergio quickly briefed, tucking the Glock at the back of his pants and going for his own duffel bag in search of a suitable suit jacket mechanically— as half of the job of looking confident and composed, Berlim would say, was pretending and acting until you'd manage to actually pull it through "The plastic explosives are kept at the back." he absently informed Marsella, while making a practical job out of shrugging off his shirt that still smelled of forest and sweat and sliding a clean one on, buttoning it up and working on his tie with the deft fingers of a control freak on autopilot "Leave me enough for any last time diversion, but make sure you take all of the rest. The drones and tracking devices too…" pausing while Marsella made approving noises while shuffling through the hidden bags kept at the back of the vehicle, taking count of the many plastic explosives ready to for use, Sergio purposefully avoided staring down at himself fully dressed in this familiar work attire that now felt as strange as the whole facade he was trying to hold, pushed his glasses to the top of his nose and carefully detached himself from his mixed feelings, pensive.

"Actually, take a couple more burner phones too, a few of the numbers I'll use for the next contacts with the police tent." his voice sounded odd to his own ears, monotonous, but still he kept up— fake it until you make it, little brother. Yes, he could do that "They could come to be useful for some misdirecting, if it'd ever come to down to it."

"Understood." Marsella got up from his knees and turned at him, nodding "What's the plan here, Profesor? How are we gonna help the rest of the crew?"

Sergio smiled a little. It was faint, fake, and a little bit cold— one of his old times smiles, polite but emotionless as he'd barely understand these social conventions and rarely feel like smiling truly at all, as an occasional rule.

"We're officially in DEFCON 1, first stage." he declared, features relaxing into a stoic mask "So I suppose it's about time I make myself a worthy distraction, in order to give our comrades some freedom to work it through."

"You're going inside." Marsella sounded impressed, which was rare. Although he had every reason to be, for this was a last resource even Raquel had been wary off when he'd first brought it up, insecure on the prospect of possibly becoming the main leader on the outside in occasion he'd need to infiltrate himself within the bank.

"Yes." Sergio nodded, slowly, feeling surer as he spoke it out loud "But first, I need to pay Nairóbi a visit in the hospital. Once she's safely secured," his hand flashed to push his glasses upwards, fast and just the slightest trembling, before he proceeded, his voice quiet "we'll put the plan in motion, stages 1 and 2."

Nairóbi's current state was estable, as last time they'd gotten a grasp of information through the police radios she'd been just out of the surgery table with a severed pulmonary artery and a nearly collapsed lung repaired— the blood loss had been significant, definitely life threatening, and if the crew hadn't administered first aids on site the outcome of Inspector Sierra's orders would've most likely become a success, for sure. Nairóbi had made the news while being taken outside the bank by two hostages nearly half an hour after being shot, unconscious and bleeding profusely, due to a decision Sergio himself had made despite Tokyo's and Helsinki's strong protests that their companion would've never choose her life at the cost of ending up thrown at a damn prison cell for the rest of it— but ever since one can't be rescued if they're dead, which had been his chilling answer, none of them had a better argument to offer, and so they allowed the ambulances and screaming police vehicles to take their friend away.

And she lived. For the time being, that was it. It'd be Sergio's task to make sure she'd be free to fight and resist her injures in the following hours ahead, and perhaps even live to see the outcome of their declared war to the whole goddamn Spain herself.

Crazy as it might sound, impossible even, Sergio new deep to his core Raquel would've supported that plan. In fact, she'd very likely tag along with him despite whatever protests he'd have to offer, in order to make sure he didn't put his life beyond strictly necessary risks, the way she seemed to fear he was constantly prone to be— assuring that he'd keep himself safe, when all of the stories he'd have to share about his first heist had horrified her enough into believing he'd only hadn't killed himself off by pure dumb luck, about a dozen times in a row.

I'm so sorry, Raquel, he thought, his sad resilience taking the best of himself, but I can't promise my safety will be a priority anymore. He felt so stupid for ever thinking it'd make so much more easier for him to risk his life without having her by his side— at first, that was good half of the reason why he'd wished so fervently she'd never be a part of this mess to begin with— but now, as her family had slowly but surely sneaked up on him in so much more affection he'd ever thought himself capable of showing, Sergio felt his life was no longer only his to spare. Not when the mere thought of all the pain Paula would have to endure over her mother's loss, all by herself, was already impossible to bear on its own. Without mentioning Marivi, that sweet resilient woman struggling not to get lost inside her own mind, that'd deserved someone to take care of her exactly the way her daughter would've wished they'd do.

But there was no way he'd be capable of assuring he'd walk alive by the end of this, he knew. Being ensured with his crew, his family's lives meant his own was spearable as long as it wouldn't compromise their final success. As for Raquel's— their family, all he could do was hope the precautions he'd taken beforehand would guarantee their safety and good care, that his will would not only transfer the numbers on his several bank accounts and his every belonging to them but his love, as well.

For if he'd die, he'd rather die with a sense of fulfilled duty in mind. And if instead of disappearing into nothingness he'd by some chance transcend to somewhere else where he'd be lucky enough to ever see her again, then he dared say he'd die a happy man.

But he was too small of a man not to need to get his revenge first.

"Make sure to ditch the rubber ammunition first, would you." Sergio instructed Marsella, whose ready expression told him he'd be already expecting this outcome "There's no longer need for us to avoid taking lives anymore. We've declared war and we shall act to match our enemies every action," he lowered his voice, ignoring the flash of sad brown eyes crossing his mind "so from now on it's an eye for an eye. We'll retaliate wherever the damage's the most."

"We're adapting DEFCON 1," he breathed, heartbeats pounding violently in anticipation "and we're going to win."

Because he was sure this was the only match in which he'd ever win by the sacrifice of the king himself.