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The Chief of D'S has just told Goren he's on suspension. What happens in those first few hours? Obviously, Post-Untethered... by a few minutes.
Transition
Rain was running down the windows, and a cold draft was blowing in under the door. The man was perplexed. He couldn't fathom how he was supposed to feel, let alone what was going to happen next. So, he simply stood by the window and watched the fat droplets of water as they raced each other down the pane only to merge into the stream that ran across the sill and then down the side of the building.
He leaned forward until his forehead almost pressed against the cold glass. His reflection stared back at him, grey in the cloud-shadowed sky. The large brown eyes looked soulful and lost, as they searched for answers in the street below.
He'd been waiting for this moment, ever since… When? How long? … never really doubting it would come, yet half terrified of the consequences. When he'd first received the news, his hands had shaken, although he hadn't let it show. He'd clenched his fists so hard his fingernails had left white crescent marks across his palms that hadn't faded for hours. Raising his hand to his face now, he imagined the indentations as his stigmata. Now, he seemed calm, but wondered how long that feeling would last, before anger would take its place.
Letting out a long sigh, he turned away from the window, choosing to lie instead across the bed with one arm flung over his eyes, listening to the rain. His life would go on, of course, but it would NEVER be the same. There was no way he could stay where was living. He'd have to pack up and move elsewhere, hopefully somewhere quiet and away from people, from the world. That might not be possible, but he held out some hope.
He sighed again. Who was he kidding? He could no more pack up and walk away from this than he could remove the other scars that have marred his soul. They had all led him to this point, they shared the blame for the man he'd become.
He liked his job, loved his job – his job was his identity. Without it, what was he? Who was he? He even felt as if he were making a difference, or at least, had been making one. These days, he would admit, he wasn't always so sure. He found his faith in humanity fading, the victories becoming a little less sweet and the defeats all the more bitter. Too many times he felt as if he were simply flailing, trying to hold back the ocean. Not waving... merely drowning. He'd made a decision, acted upon it and now all he could do was face the future with the same grim determination he seemed to apply to everything lately.
At this moment, lying in bed, he was in limbo. He almost felt like a part of him had been shorn off. But, then, perhaps it had. There had been long nights filled with private, speculative conversations, mostly late at night, as they sat in a dark car waiting for something to happen. Those discussions had always been half-serious, skirting around the difficult parts, dancing over the line between reality and fantasy. He didn't feel he could turn to her now; the taint of his behavior already marked her. If he stayed away long enough, maybe she could find the road ahead clear for her. He wasn't so much of a fool that he had thought the job would last forever, but he'd hoped for a few more years at least. Yet, he knew things didn't always work out for the best, and the most deserving didn't always win.
He moved his arm from across his face and sat up. He could hear the rain driving harder now, slamming against the window. His troubled thoughts seemed to echo the stormy weather outside. He would enter this new phase of his life alone – something he'd never really done before. He felt overwhelmed at the idea. The one person he could have talked to, even though it was always a gamble whether she would understood or not, was gone.
He got off the bed again and wandered back to the window to see the rain still running down the window as he wondered if asking the question was still enough?