Though seldom sporting an innocent smile or optimistic eyebrow uprising, Elliot found himself dominated by an expression as grim as it was morose -and it was very morose- upon hearing the Director's announcement.  Rest and recuperation awaited him, as well as his peers, for the foreseeable future, though even as one perfectly pleased to slack off this news satisfied him not.  Despite his uncanny brilliance in all matters seen and unseen, Elliot would be hard-pressed to boast a mastery in psychology, but he felt that having nothing to do but study and sulk for a few days might not help the kiddies out as much as the bigwig thought it might.  Some activity to lose oneself in, or some opportunity to rebuild lost confidence for the sake of redemption from this night's failure—those struck him as worthwhile pursuits.  As he stood up from the table following, Elliot opted to dismiss such thoughts.  Even if time alone to think about the past brought pain back to the forefront, time to heal and maybe to forget would probably be best for the others.  As for him, the unflappable anti-hero, veteran of a thousand wars, a recon mission with a shower sounded nice.  A final glance, its striking recipe a bold mix of curiosity and rebuke, flew Lillian's way as the wounded Wards made their collective, lugubrious escape from the conference room.  It told her, [i]Whatever do you mean?  There was never...any doubt in my mind.[/i]  His movement robotic, Elliot wandered the halls until he found his destination in the Wards' quarters, stopping only to hurl his overcoat into his 'junk room' and listened to the now-enlarged items bang around.  Before he knew it, his clothes were but a fleeting memory, and he stood beneath the looming nozzle with a hand on the smooth, cold handle.

Thirty minutes passed under the scalding cascade.  As the steam billowed around him, and at a snail's pace he scrubbed himself with a bar of soap, his thoughts ranged far beyond the narrow confines of his stall.  It sauntered across the isthmus that divided the vast, unfathomably deep, and worryingly similar-looking seas of good and evil.  It meandered down forgotten yet familiar streets, peering in on images that still made a remote corner of its owner's darkness still darker.  It wondered, and conjectured, at how people from another life might be living, if they still lived.  Before too long the heavy yet distant images, weighing on him like the glinting eyes of a predator hundreds of feet behind on the savannah, all faded away into a haze.  The hot water lulled Elliot into a sluggish, waking sleep—a gentle oblivion, no substitute for the real thing, but still altogether nice.

Eventually, he thought to glance at his digits, which by then had assumed the likeness of raisins in texture if not hue.  Eyes still half-closed, Elliot cut off the embracing deluge and pulled on briefs, shorts, and a t-shirt.  From there it wasn't long at all until he arrived at the place where he belonged, the only place he had to go: his room.

There, he drifted away in no time flat.