Three years.

Three years of phantom injuries making his limbs ache. Three years of dreams of the night he’d been betrayed and his life fallen to ruin.

He entered the station with his head low (had there once been a time when his head had not been low?), muttering meaningless greetings to his fellow officers. He vaguely remembered a time when concepts such as Law and Order and Serve and Protect had meant something to him. These days, they had given way to Get the Job Done and Don’t Make Waves and We’re Watching You.

He settled into his desk chair, the predictable creak of its joints greeting him as it did every day, and scanned his desk with his usual degree of measured apathy. One person assaulted in an alley. Two people found dead in an apartment. Three people arrested for running a speakeasy. Names, dates, dispositions were scanned and lodged themselves in his mind.

A moment.

Three people arrested for running a speakeasy.

He pushed aside the detritus perpetually sailing the rough seas of his desk to better focus on the speakeasy arrests.

The names were names he had read before, in earlier files committed to memory in a time when he had cared rather more about such things. They weren’t the names of anyone important, in that they weren’t the names that kept him awake at night. But maybe, just maybe…

His eyes drift down the report.

Known Associates.

Hm.

His legs shifted beneath the desk, and he found himself propelled to his feet and turned in the direction of the holding cells. He found his right hand curled about the grip of his pistol, and with effort managed to loosen his fingers enough to return his sidearm to its holster. Dead men wouldn’t talk. He considered that for a moment as he glanced about the duty room, noting the general lack of interest in his activities. But then, everyone in the room knew him to be dead as well, and the living take no interest in the affairs of the dead.

So it was that he was able to authorize the release of one of the speakeasy perps into his custody, encourage the man to take a walk and then a drive to a building known by his less morally-constrained compatriots to be used for such things, and speak with him about Known Associates. Having the current whereabouts of Known Associates conveyed to him, he found his grip on the perp’s jacket slipping. The scream of the man ended abruptly with the dull impact of his body against the alleyway several stories below where he’d been suspended.

He looks down from the rooftop overlooking the club of interest, fighting stiff shoulder-muscles. He finds himself angry that the two people responsible for ruining his life still work together; that the injuries they inflicted upon him were of so little meaning to them that they didn’t even part ways after the fact. Instead they’ve traded badges for lapel pins and a police chief for a mob kingpin. At the limits of his perceptions, he feels his jaw clench as he ponders this.

He’s been considering how best to approach matters, how he might best make an end of things. The sniper rifle situated next to him is not standard issue, but then, he is not himself standard issue.

The colors of autumn deepen as dusk engulfs the city and his soul. The holding pattern that has been his life will change this evening. For the first time in millennia a hint of a smile crosses his face, though perhaps it bears little in common with the typical understanding of what a smile must entail.

They leave the building and other thoughts fade to irrelevancy. He watches them look about for signs of unwanted attention, but his quiet car goes unnoticed. He lifts the sight of the rifle to his good eye, and feels it narrow as he’s suddenly the closest he’s been to them in years. His finger cradles itself on the trigger of the rifle and begins to tighten up. It takes surprising effort for him to take his traitorous finger off the gun; now is not the time.

They walk to their shared vehicle, and he swiftly retreats to his own. His mind is racing ahead, contemplating where they might be going, and the best means of making their mistake clear to them once they reach a place where they will attract less attention.

Their engine starts.

In the gray that is his world, the orange flame that engulfs their vehicle is painfully bright. The meaningless hum of the world he’s grown accustomed to is shattered by the thunder of the explosion. His eyes close too late, the blaze of the vehicle imprinted in his mind’s eye.

Where there was a chance to regain his life, there is nothing.

He is at his desk when he is summoned to the chief’s office. His steps are somehow both leaden and silent as he complies. At the chief’s request, he closes the door behind him, turning to face the dimly-lit office and the golden-leafed trees framed by the window at its rear.

“Why did you do it?” It takes him a moment to realize that the voice is the chief’s and not his own.

“Why did you think I wouldn’t?” There’s more accusation in his voice than he intended.

“I told you we’d take care of them. Together. There was no need for…this.”

“There was every need for this.” He tries to remember the last time he said a word with such passion.

A heavy sigh, then, “I told you I’d look out for you. That you wouldn’t be alone. That we’d deal with them. You’ve made everything harder.”

“Why did you do it, then?” This time he’s the one asking the question.

“Because I believe in you. And because I’m not done with you yet.”