No, it was not the physical pain. His youth nearly restored, Michael Deckard felt nearly in the top shape a man in his late thirties *should* feel like. The pain was more emotional...more spiritual...a personal sort of pain that seemingly blinded him at times.
It had been nearly ten months since Deckard had become a widower.
In the line of work that he had chosen, the real possibility of loss was a constant. Despite the danger, The Deckards had enjoyed thirty years together, raised a family, and had contemplated a time finally away from "The life". Privately, the Deckards had planned it would be Michael who passed first....it had been the logical conclusion.
Then Siberia. The mission. The old enemies. The fatalistic moment when the trap was sprung. They had argued the morning that Elizabeth had taken the team to Russia. It was about the seeming obsession Michael had developed. They parted angry...they did not say goodbye....they didn't look at one another. It was a moment of anger which felt like all the other times - would be resolved when the day ended and they sought comfort in each other.
Instead, Elizabeth had died, leaving Michael unprepared for what was to come next. It took weeks to recover enough of their 'home' to sort belongings. Although to all parties concerned, he had resumed his activities and role albeit low-keyed, there was something different. Those who really knew him, the five or so people within his inner circle knew something was wrong...the signs were ever-present. To those who worked for him, there was no change - obsessive behavior which seemingly was blinded by the inability to see the damage done.
Every morning he rose at the same time. Michael was getting used to sleeping alone, the coldness which took up the place where Elizabeth slept. Her scents were still on the pillows, hanging languidly in the air amid their room. It was the worst, waking up and moving through the remnants of a shared life. Michael would spend moments trying to recall the daily rituals each would do, but found that with Elizabeth gone, the memories were like the scents - fading into the background of the waking world.
Things were far harder now. Michael had fallen into the repetition of work, and the old familiar temptations seemed to creep more into his active mind. While his will was strong, the source of his strength had been crippled - although he had masterfully kept it hidden, the pain was always present, draining his resolve.
The days seemed shorter, and the nights, often sleepless, lingered longer. If Amadeus Van Brandt had hoped to kill Michael Deckard he had succeeded, for the waking death was far worse than the actual event. Perhaps that was what Van Brandt really wanted - a sort of endless suffering that Deckard could never escape from. Now all Deckard had left was his job, and in that, he could feel himself disengaging despite evidence otherwise. The real problem was that no one could see it. Was it redemption now? Was that the mission Deckard threw himself into? It mattered little - Without her, nothing really mattered.
Running across the beach and along the paths in the jungle, it was simple mechanics of motion and effort. It was as if he were dead, and for a long time Michael Deckard quietly prayed it would be so...maybe then, if he had balanced his books right with a lifetime of service, he'd see his wife again.
If it were only that simple.....
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