In the Workshop

There's no joy in this, not a single fucking bit. It isn't like it was fun last time he did it either, but at least then it had a purpose. Now it's just some recurring nightmare where he's doing what has to be done, and with each hour that passes he figures his chances of ever finding Beth again get smaller and smaller. As he cleans his gun, making sure with precision that there's no chance of a misfire, no chance of anything going wrong with it, he replays the whole thing in his mind: there they were, having dinner and sharing a martini because Beth's a sensible woman, damn it, and she's not going to do anything to risk hurting Junior. But a few sips of martini aren't going to hurt him or anyone. Then there's the cereal with lots of milk, and shrimp and rice, and none of that should have led to them getting separated. If he could only recapture that feeling of utter contentment he had with her for a minute, this might all be so much easier.

Or maybe it would make it twice as hard. Losing the woman he loves hurts like hell, and this isn't the first time it's happened. It took him three years to find Julia again out here and if things follow like they did last time, he's about to find her again. Three years, and Julia's from his same time and reality. Beth could be anywhere in time, anywhere in the universe: he'll never fucking find her. The Martian red tequila in the glass at his side isn't doing a hell of a lot to kill the pain either; it tastes just as shitty as ever. It makes a better bodyguard than a drink. Glancing down at it after putting his Jericho back together and testing it, he sees Faye reflected on its surface. He'll put money on her not remembering Beth any better than Jet.

"You got something?" Be here from the bar. Tell me the door opened for you and you followed my sorry ass here. Tell me something like that, Faye, and I might even be nice to you forever. "You look like you have some information."