[b][u]CDC Facility[/u][/b]

	Energy bristled from the middle aged man's body as he snapped off another series of crisp punches into the heavy bag. Again it swung, its chain rattling overhead, only to be caught by a quick succession of hooks sprinkled with jabs. The shots were strategic and fast, but lacked nothing in power; these were the practiced movements of one fully familiar with the brutal finesse one needs in combat. His legs flowed beneath him, propelling him around the bag, never staying still for too long. He swayed as he dodged a nonexistent attack before feigning another jab, only to follow through with a menacing elbow strike to what would be the throat. Three palm strikes travelling up from the gut ended with verve where one might find the nose of an opponent of equal height. Between the oncoming spinning elbow and a snap kick from hell, it was clear the bag had had enough. He removed the weights he'd wrapped around his ankles and took off his boxing gloves, promptly laying them down beside the bag before heading across the room to his treadmill. This was life now and it had been for what felt like a lifetime. As he ran he distractedly wondered at which point in a prisoner's sentence they cease the incessant counting of hours in days, days in weeks, weeks in months and so on. He'd arrived nearly a year ago, before any of the worse had even begun to show, a countermeasure against a projected threat that seemed increasingly likely to come to fruition. His early departure had been advantageous for many number of reasons, mainly in that it afforded him time to prepare himself and receive any equipment necessary to meet that end, though that time came at a heavy cost. The being apart from his wife and children, the not knowing what may have come of them, the isolation. He'd done his best to cope; throwing himself into a strict, daily schedule of rigorous physical training (several miles a day with sprints mixed in, speedbags along with the heavy bag that doubled as a grappling dummy, and targeted weight training and stretches), tactical shooting drills (with a set of airsoft guns and paper targets he'd requested), and intensive language studying (consisting of reading upper level books on various topics ranging from survival to astronomy, watching movies and documentaries on a government issued tablet, and recording himself as he conducted a daily vlog to keep his skills from slipping away without use). The training was his job, which quite frankly he wasn't even sure he was being paid for, but his sense of duty refused to waver and he kept at it consistently. With the additional downtime afforded from "working from home", he cooked his own meals, cleaned his cell twice a week, played guitar, danced, tried his hand at magic with the help of a few videos he had sent in, and most importantly wrote letters. He had no clue if the letters were even being sent out, he certainly wasn't receiving any replies, but it didn't stop him from writing. 

	He looked up at the collage of pictures he'd taken from home and honed in on one in particular. The cheerful smiles, a genuine twinkle in his daughter's eyes, a humorously large carrot in his son's hand. Emmerich had been behind the camera snapping the shot as his wife picked their son up and brought him closer to the snowman they'd all built together. The group stood gathered in front of the snowfort they'd pressed together just before assembling the snowman. A time before confinement, capturing both the joy and warmth that made him willing to rise every morning and continue to count the days that ticked away like minutes. He looked more closely, chuckling wistfully as he remembered Jonas' little face glowing with glee as he shimmied around the yard that day to the sound of a jingle bell necklace he'd put on in the morning. Delilah, only six at the time, sported a bright red nose and a short, fluffy tail that kept her occupied even while the photo was being taken. The snow had practically refused to stop that winter, but they enjoyed themselves all the same. As he closed his eyes Emmerich could still see the individual snowflakes gently cascading downward, a gentle breeze breathing life into their descent. He could see the snow interlaced within his wife's dark hair, her short cut framing her face elegantly even as the wind sighed. Suddenly his senses were filled with the sounds of caroling neighbors and the scent of cookies baking. His hand came instinctively to his cheek, wiping away tears that had gathered. It couldn't be helped though. No matter how well things here went, life would be irrevocably different when he got out. No matter how much he distracted himself with his work, that fact would forever remain the same. He'd missed out on a full year of his kids' lives. He had no way of knowing how they were faring. All he could do was continue, week after week, to send these tear stained letters reminding them that they were forever on his mind, that not a day went by when he didn't think of them, and hope beyond hope that some force somewhere had kept his loved ones unharmed in his stead.

	He stared longingly at the Christmas picture, knowing all too well that the holiday was approaching yet again and wondering what his chances were of ever feeling that way again.