Laughter. It seemed to echo around the walls of his room, deep and mocking.

His hands, trembling and almost unresponsive, grasped his head, fingers curling into the short mess of brown hair. Nausea flooded his system, bile building in his throat. Coaching himself through breathing was the only thing that stopped him from heaving. Barely.

He wanted... no, he needed...

"No," Stryker whispered to himself, shaking his head. It was a bad move. He squeezed his eyes shut, battling against the sensation that rode him; it felt almost like seasickness. "Man up, Odello."

It was almost twelve hours since he had last had a drink. Almost twelve hours since Maddy...