After two months of recovery (bones mending painfully, scar tissue welling up on his forehead, neck, back and muscles carefully realigning themselves) David Webb sits in the (discreet) hospital bed and tries to understand where he's going to go.
The mission is over, the objective completed. He has his memory now, his body and mind working in sync for the first time in more than three years.
He has guilt and he knows where it comes from.
He has happiness and he understands that, too.
He has dread and rage and yet now those emotions don't frighten him.
And he has memory – his biggest hope and fear of them all.
David Webb slowly puts on his jacket with the help of the doctor and slips him ten-thousand dollars.
The man glances down at it, then back up at Webb and shakes his head, slicing the wad of money in half and handing the rest back to David.
"I know who you are," the doctor says, "and what you have done. Consider this thank you from us."
'Us' may mean many people, but David doesn't ask the man to elaborate. He thanks him, listens to his instructions as to what he can and cannot do (David might heed the doctor's orders, might not depending on what he's doing and how he's feeling) and then slowly walks out from the aid station beneath the city and into the early dawn hours of a New York spring.
It is brisk, winter still clinging desperately to New York for as long as possible, but the interior of the taxi is warm, even if it reeks of cigar smoke. The driver (an Iranian immigrant, eyes sharp and alert) peers at him over a bushy mustache and waits (somewhat impatiently) for a response.
David remains mute for a moment, considering.
Finally:
"JFK, please."
The man nods, puts the car into drive.
And it is then (when David arrives at the airport, stepping out and handing the man fifty-dollars) that he knows what he is going to do.
He waits in line for an hour, but when David reaches the check-in counter, he informs the clerk that he wishes to book an immeadiate flight to Missouri.
The woman at this desk narrows her eyes, trying to recognize where she's seen his face (on the news, she doesn't know that yet) but doesn't ask any questions. He gives her the fake i.d., nudges the glasses further up his nose, and she types the information in quickly.
She asks for his money (which he gives to her graciously) and then hands him his ticket.
David Webb gets on a plane to St. Louis, Missouri and begins to prepare.
He's going home, now.
A/N: So I thought I'd call this the end. Any suggestions for more characters, or is calling this the final chapter fair?