Dec. 12, 1968 – 21.0°F – 11.6mph, SE – 2.49mi – Overcast

When does heroism become vanity?

I've had a long six weeks to think. Nothing else to do, really—Angie might've trained Medical a little too well, but if I tell her that, she'll put me back on bed rest.

So, when does heroism become vanity? When does determination become mania? When does sacrifice become self-satisfaction? When is enough, enough?

If there's a taller mountain, I have to climb it. Six weeks ago, I called that ambition.

Angie said they won't know if they can discharge Falkner for another ten months. It turned his kidneys to titanium. Heart valve to gallium. Apparently, it treated his early bone cancer though—it's all strontium now.

John told me again that I need to let it go. Angie, too. Stiller, Perlman, Li, Meyers. I know what they're all thinking: Davis and Yero are dead. They have been since the moment they were taken. Nothing of our world can survive in that formless beyond.

I swore I'd bring them back. Is it still for them? Or is it for me?

Fine. Let's say it's just for me, my pride. I don't give a damn. I am never going to let it go. I can't. I won't.

I won't, but Director Moffat, head of the DEO, must. Falkner went with me because I believed, and he believed me. If the only way to get them back is to throw other lives into that tear, let it have them—I won't make that trade. Not ever. I'll unbend the projects I've pointed in that direction. Reallocate manpower and funding. Get back to the mission.

But I'm not letting them go. I will find them, and I will bring them back.