What if this is the sum total of your years? This: the last mission, the final stand, the concluding action of a desperate woman. Would I look back on a life fulfilled? Should I stand now on the precipice of death, have I done enough? Has this been my life?

These questions hasten, unperturbed, through my mind. At crucial moments, they look to me. I will have the answer. I will pull it out my ass. Not through brilliance, or understanding. Not through motivation, or for a higher purpose. Only through fear that these questions may be answered for me. Only through preservation of self.

I have saved billions of people, millions of worlds, hundreds of times. Yet I cannot save myself. I have let myself down. I have not lived, loved, been loved- though this is a lie in its self. I have loved and been loved. Yet fear drove me. Duty bore me away.

I cannot feel these feelings, think these thoughts.

As I lie on the regulation bunk, in the regulation room, upon regulation rough blankets, I wish to break the rules.

In my heart I am the eternal rebel. I ride, cut my hair, drink beer and sleep with women. But only in my heart. In my mind. Even to those who know me best, I am duty. The model of duty. Always by the book.

I dream of writing my own book. One where I am free.

The line of duty. On duty. Do my duty. A mindless drone. After all these years, what else could a trapped spirit become? Tied down, beaten up, and broken down. I do this to myself.

Only here, in these few brief moments of privacy do I allow myself freedom. Freedom from restraint. Freedom to think, to believe, to hope. Once I dreamt of running. Of him. Of a fresh start. Now all I think of is her.

Her smile, her deep brown eyes. All I can see in my mind's eye is her. With her. In her. Beside her.

Years of this place has brought me a deeper understanding. Of other people. Of other cultures. Of my own government. Of myself. I have found the yearning within is not to break free. I am no free spirit. This is my place, I would be nowhere else.

Except here with her.

Her gentle hands caress me. Professionally of course. Caring hands. Soft hands. Hands I long to hold, and kiss.

Is it fear which tells me this is not to be? Fear or understanding? I know she feels for me as I do for her. Yet every fibre of my being knows it cannot be. Terror overwhelms the best of us. It is what drives us forward. It is the only reason we look beyond ourselves. That the end will come, that we have no control, that there is no control. These are the reasons for science, medicine, religion, perhaps even love.

We need a constant, whilst all around us is variable. An equation will not work without one. Be it 1 or π, a constant is required. And for us love is the constant in the equation for our existence. Without this we have no answer. No purpose.

She is my constant. But the variables keep us apart. What if, maybe, perhaps. No, not variables. Fear alone. I fear rejection, as much as I fear acceptance. Sleeping with random, anonymous girls is different. This would not be release, recreation. This would be life. Love.

I am too afraid of the connotations of that word. Playful banter, lingering looks, touches longer than required. These I can handle. These are acceptable. Within the realms of friendship. More would not be. More would make this real.

I cannot handle reality. Could not deal with discovery. I shrink at the mere idea of the openness such a thing implies. The military teaches us one thing above all others: openness is weakness. You cannot allow yourself to become weak. It is this, above all else, above a thousand staff weapon, and Zat guns, that I truly fear.

I am scared of that which I feel. That which I cannot feel. Should not. Will not feel. That which I do feel. No matter how much I pretend, it does not go away. It only grows with time.

Here in this bed, my sanctuary, is the only place I allow myself to feel. Allow myself to accept these feelings. Here, the image of her is emblazoned in my mind.

Here, only here, I make the unchanged realisation, night after night. Without her, I am not fulfilled. Mine is a life of lies. An empty, half lived life.