All the Time...

Year 40: Margaret spent a rare moment alone with her husband. “This patch of garden seems a bit out of place.”

Michael pointed to where, amid the oddly discordant flowers and trees, Morgan sat on a bench, fingering petals and occasionally plucking and breathing deeply the fragrance before popping some in his mouth. Michael then placed an arm around his wife's shoulder and steered her away from the area, explaining it was a place of solitude for Morgan.

Morgan simply sat, marvelling at the here and now. The concept of relaxation was a relatively new one for him. Previously, down time meant he was too injured or dazed to move. He had been trained how to work through the pain of broken bones, sprain, strains, concussions, and severe bleeding. He had been trained to focus and tune out the myriad voices, real and imaginary, that had haunted his brain. Now, he worked when he felt like it and there were occasional murmurs, but no demanding, punitive voices in his head. He was 'home' enough for medication to work.

Gone also was the bone-grindingly tiring triple-schedule. He worked for three different sources as an assassin and all three individually expected a heavier than normal workload from him. Multiplied times three meant he slept a lot on terra firma and had to use time warping to manage the physical demands. The adjustment to being relaxed was difficult, almost disaffecting. The drugs helped.

So now he had the time to do what he hadn't done since childhood. He sat and enjoyed the sensory garden that John Wallace had installed specifically for him. “You were a wonderful father,” he whispered to the empty air. He knew him as his father and was loved by him despite quite obviously not being related. Early on, Morgan understood he didn't 'look' anything like a Wallace. Listening to birds chitter, he realized he'd forgotten how he used to count them at this time of day as a boy.

His thoughts then turned to his father's spirit ushering him to heaven. He was happy, genuinely happy, at that moment. He was with someone who loved him unconditionally. He saw Michael there, too. They could all be together and happy, eternally. Then, it went dark. They told him he was still needed as a minion. He resigned to the fact they would not leave him in peace. Why did they have to take Michael from there?

He could remember Michael being always with him, always in him, no matter how far apart they were. Now, it was like having a memory of him walk about in his place. It faithfully acted like him, smelled like him, even recalled what he did in life, but an essential truth was missing. It didn't recall the link or comprehend what was missing. But it felt and smelled and acted and talked enough like Michael that he dearly wanted to believe it was him. If his hand or arm had been an inch forward, his death would likely not have happened..

No, Morgan couldn't let his mind go down that path again. He had worn a rut in his brain wondering if he could prevented it. Mother did it to him. Why the hell would she aim for a hand when trying to kill someone with a syringe? He felt a straining flutter in his chest. He decided his mind should not go their either...