When James next woke up, for a moment he existed. Not caught by the weight of his grief, the compression in his heart that threatened to destroy every joy-tinged recollection and word. Even as he breathed in, trying to drown out the compulsion to keep digging, to know and unearth the secrets the ghosts had, he knew that wasn't what Anne would have wanted for him - not an obsession fueled spree that would end with the numbness of his soul.
It was what she had saved him from, giving him a new perspective and reminding him of the need not only for knowledge and information, but also to judge for himself what was right, to not trust in orders - to not compromise himself beyond what was strictly necessary.
He thought about what she would say of his notes. Of the abundance of evidence of immortal warriors that seemed to do only good - to protect the innocent and hunt the criminals from the world. She would have loved it. And it was with that in mind he went back to his research. Not in anger or bitterness as he had ended yesterday, but imagining the wonder and happiness in her face as she looked and commented on the good deeds. Then he changed the direction of his research - not on the immortals themselves (though there was still a curiosity to know more, to hoard the knowledge of what and who they were - a remnant of his training), but on those they saved, in the lives they changed.
Thrown out of his compulsive behavior, he accumulated fragments of news and places they had gone through. He could almost see Anne' smile at the pictures of women led to safety, children found alive post earthquakes, kidnapping victims rescued after a certain woman appeared. It still hurt. Envy mixing with wonder, grief and gladness - if an immortal (no, not only one, but four of them) still saw something in humanity worth saving, to keep fighting for it, then he shouldn't do any less than they.
While he couldn't (wouldn't ) go back to CIA, he could still use his skills in different areas to help. As his current interest was in medicine, the obvious choice was to find an analyst job that would allow him to become more knowledgeable in his chosen project field and make a difference, help in some small way.
And in the meantime, his collection of deeds, registers and newspaper clips relating to the ghosts also grew. While he was looking for the names of refugees, he found a later lead, same surname, but for a Nobel's prize - the child of that family invented a new way to identify diabetes and was nominated for the medicine prize for it. He printed and put it along with the photo of Andromache of Scythia (as the woman was called by the Greeks in their odes and poems to her valor and honor in battle) in Montenegro.
James had a... not really feeling, but an instinct that this discovery was important, but there were files and data to compile, to certify if the drug in testing was truly safe for his current employer, checking and double checking the standards applied, notes and procedures , and so he drowned in his work for awhile, knowing that what he was doing was also important in its own way, and willing to be better (for Anne's memory if for nothing else).
Months later, when he came back to his own personal project, tracing and linking names and cities, sightings and savings, a pattern began to emerge from the data. At first, it seemed a coincidence - just luck. And yet, the more he found and added to his board, the clearer it became: each time the ghosts saved someone, that person or their descendants gave something back to humanity - be it in contributions to science, art, human rights or ceasing of hostilities, there was always a way they gave back to humanity, as if the ghosts were guided by fate to do so. Or knew they had to save a specific person from a multitude of others.
Briefly James wondered if they were time travelers - that would also make sense (had they found a way to freeze time, so they would never age?), but his instinct still pointed to immortals. over time shenanigans. Looking at his handwritten annotations, where the words immortal and time travelers were both circled with a question mark on the side, he decided to be glad nobody would see them - he didn't want to have to explain,a s the most plausible explanation he could give would be that he had a perfect idea for fictional writing and was researching to start writing, but even that wouldn't excuse the board of Doom as Anne would call his collection of clippings, drawings and theories on these people.
There was still a scratch, an itch there to know - how did they heal? Were they invulnerable or was their healing just incredible fast? Was it something genetic? Unique to each of these individuals or could it be replicated? Were there more of them? And, perhaps the most important: Could it be reproduced in laboratory to save other people? Those were the questions that he had every night.
He didn't try to track them himself. He doubted he would be able to do so without alerting them to his interest - and considering the paranoia level they had when taking a job, it would probably be detrimental to his health and life. But he did his best to keep informed of missions they would be interested on or situations they had a historic of getting involved into. Harder and easier that way - too many places, so many heartbreaking happenings - it was like looking at the ocean and realizing it would never stop or drain. It was the same with humanity's worst aspects.
He was keeping up with one of their missions, the most recent one apparently a self funded one to rescue immigrants from traffickers posing as smugglers. They won, as much as one operation like that can be said to turn out a victory - with an entire 'cargo' of women rescued, the regional contact there dead, but it was still one cell, of a probably giant organization preying on people's despair and need to survive and provide for their families.
It hit him then, five years since he started his research. Almost seven since the first time he saw them. The realization that it would never really get better. There would never be real peace. Or anything like it while people died - of illness or violence. And even looking at all the good, at the ramification he glimpsed, all the good the people they rescued and their descendants did, for the first time it seemed just a drop in a bucket in the middle of an ocean greed, avarice, lust, wrath and vanity that defined existence, dotted with rotting ships and skeletons - the ruins of corruption barely cleansed by the their actions, no matter how many times they tried and acted.
He couldn't picture Anne smiling at his actions anymore. She had not been forgotten because there were still photos of their life together, their memories resting in the dust of their favorites books, the DVDs carefully preserved in a shelf, her favorite perfume in the bathroom, even so long after she had last used it. But he didn't know what Anne would have thought of his own conclusion, whether she would agree or rebuke him, casting his eyes to what he had missed (did he miss anything in his research? Was there something more to this situation that he did not see?), if she would help or tell him to stop. And perhaps, it was a selfish wish. Perhaps it was a fool's desire, but he thought that so much more could be done if they truly were immortal (or even time travelers, for that matter).
Looking at his news feed that alerted him to as many disasters as he could imagine, what he knew (and even what he inferred from their patterns) it was still so... limited, taking into account what was there to do. Or what could be done. (If it was possible to recreate immortality, to make it in a drug or an elixir - so that no one would die, so there would be no reason for violence).
It took his breath away, that idea. But he would need to know more, more than he had allowed himself to know, would need to have some contact, find a way to talk to connect (to convince) even if only one of them, of the merit of his idea. Dragging or forcing them would be pointless, he suspects only an army could do so, and to allow a military to get even one of them... Too much would be thrown out of balance, and no country would let that amount of power slip from their hands easily - such research couldn't be rooted in nationalism - if a drug to heal all illness or even to turn someone immortal could be made, it shouldn't be limited to one country or even a region of the world. It should be available to all - the only way to make sure it would be worth it, worth whatever he had to do (he did not let himself believe that there wouldn't be a price attached to getting what he thought would be essential: cooperation. And if that was not possible, to forcibly get what was necessary).
Though he knew he didn't need all four, he didn't need even one to be fair. If samples could be taken, blood, cells so they could be studied... To understand what made them different, what made them immortal if they truly were immortal. He needed to know more, he needed to see if it was feasible, to do so.
With his freelance/personal project of working with pharmacy companies, it had been easy to learn more about what was necessary about testing of drugs and the years spent making sure a drug was truly efficient and with as little side effects as possible. (His heart still ached when he read about the families of test patients - it was still too easy to put himself in their place, to hope and dream only to have it crash and burn in front of you, no miracle available as your loved one suffered and you with them, burning yourself to the ground, trying to make something work for them, for a trial drug to just click and a miracle be thrown in your way. There are few miracles outside of Hollywood).
The question now was: who to make contact with? Who would be more willing to sit and listen to what he had to say? In both sides of the equation. he needed more manpower, money and connections than he currently had, and more knowledge too, the things he had stopped himself from trying to figure out, the patterns of rest and regions they were found out of combat, the human side of unknown beings that he had known only from pictures, paintings and stories - instead of warriors and mercenaries, the human factor of comfort, hearth and home (would they even consider a place home, when they were so displaced from their own original time? How did they understand the passing of time and civilizations, of cultures?).