Long nights, and short days; duties barely worth remembering. The soft brush of her hair against his cheek, the secret and seductive smiles; they punctuated every second, every sentence they wove. The tender moments that seemed so fragile, like the whole world held its breath - Washington Becker spent those short months tangled in an endless warm embrace.

It wasn't long before winter gave way to spring. Death to life, and that delicate hush was punctuated by missions; more work and less play. They'd become stronger now, at some point; he and his girl Sally. It was as if the cold didn't touch them and the frost melted leaving something better, something more whole. It was strange, to feel so loved and yet so alone. It'd been easy to slip into that tireless habit of seclusion. Such a small island, and yet peppered with empty places. Things were so clean and simple when it was just Wash and his own thoughts.

He used the time to train, and it was time well spent - he felt closer to his weapon than ever before. It was elating, but sometimes he wondered.

What am I doing anymore?

He had given up so many things; laid them to rest one night on a beach. It was a pure thing, primal; a baptism. He'd let his past go with the tide. Or at least, that was what he'd thought. It would never leave him completely; he knew. It was a part of who he was, a piece of his identity. Precious, and not forgotten. A box of keepsakes, to be taken out and regarded whenever an opportunity arose, perhaps. And yet, he still felt an itching in his soul. A restless stirring. Had he really been moving forward all this time - or standing still?

The price of freedom had been steep, the day of his recruitment. He'd been given an opportunity, but at the cost of everything he loved and knew. As if his past before the island had been nothing more than a strange dream; a foggy haze. He'd been so many things; then. A son, a brother. A husband and then a father. A friend, family, cousin, perhaps one day an uncle - a day that would now never come. He'd tried to be so many things for so many people; and maybe he'd only half succeeded, but they'd loved him then anyway. It was cold, that remembered love. Flat, and grey, and empty - a cherished memory of something gone forever. Reality was seeping in, and that reality was a name and number.

Washington David Becker, Room 118. Wash, Moon Hunter. 'Intermediate' now, from trainee. But had anything really changed? He felt more powerful, and... less. A new man, an empty man stripped of titles and meaning; a name without a face. Perhaps it was his own fault - he had felt so out of sorts, in the beginning; hadn't really made many friends. Just an endless sea of acquaintances.

Was that it then? Was he standing still? It was hard to plan a future, here, when so much was uncertain. They were hunters; they lived for the hunt - and whatever came between was lagniappe. Excess. Trim, the extras. All those little, special moments, so easily taken away. Perhaps he was afraid, then, to move forward. To commit to anything. It was so much easier, taking anything and assuming nothing. To be transient- a ghost. A collection of thoughts and memories of a man who used to be. It would be so easy to give up; to fall into routine. To let go of everything.

She kept him hanging on, though. Somehow. Sasha Belrose, room number forgotten - had it been that long since he'd been the one bunking over? She was more than just a woman - she was a fire, an enigma; a scent on his bedsheets and a crease in his pillow. A girl and a wild, wild thing. She had come to grow into him somehow, sending those unruly tangles into the core of his being - maintaining that thready, wavering pulse. It was the last note; his lifeline. The last thing between him and the void of acceptance.

Deus Ex Machina. Till death do us part; where death was the only certainty.

Notes. Another memory stirred. He hadn't heard her play in a while, he slowly realized. The dormitory as of late had been punctuated by the sweet trilling of the silver-and-gold instrument. When had it stopped, and why hadn't he noticed? It was a difficult question. He wondered if he should even ask, as he wandered the facility trying to gather his own thoughts. It was like catching butterflies, he reflected - for every one he netted two more flitted away. So many questions, and so hard to fight the complacency that had kept him so neatly contained. Maybe it was easier to forget after all. To stay still, and warm himself at that fire. Maybe he could let her burn, until it ate him up.

Washington Becker, the man without soul.