FIVE..?
"Here."
"What -?" A hand automatically curling round the stem of the glass.
"Soma and adrenaline - with faux champagne flavouring." Amusement in the deep, pain-roughened voice. "It's New Years Day, Avon."
"In the F-federation, yes." Half-bitter, half-satiric - an odd, cold, sweet-sour blend. "Don't tell me you of all people follow their rules?"
"Occasionally, when I want to."
"Of course, I'd forgotten. You do as you see fit -"
"- whatever the Federation -"
"- or anyone else -"
"- dictates."
A silence.
"We could try and find them for you."
"Generous, but not necessary. I do not need any of them. Even if," a pause, a caught breath, a half-twist of smile, "any of them lived. Which they almost c-certainly - which they certainly - did not."
"Orac can try."
"Orac has better ways to waste its time. They. Are. Dead."
"As you thought I was."
"As I thought we both were. And as you n-nearly were." Watching the knuckles around the glass stem turning white. "I have no wish to try another search for the missing, B-blake. The last one did not go well, you'll agree."
"Do you regret it?"
"I have not - quite decided that yet. Maybe at the end of this year - I'll know."
That will do for a resolution, then," and there's an echo of old laughter in the words. "Drink, Avon, say goodbye to the old year, and go to sleep. We'll talk in the morning."
-the end-