Anger was a fitting feeling for a warrior. G’Kar knew wrath; it was his old, familiar friend and companion. And so justified and right towards the Centauri, those barbaric bastards who had enslaved the Narn people…

"I will confess that I look forward to the day when we have cleansed the Universe of the Centauri…”

And yet, as he watched his planet fall to the Shadows, watched the sacrifice of noble pilots to save females and children, wrath transformed to the white-hot of a nova… and died.

Wrath had passed from G’Kar, and what was left was much more terrible.

Wait… he was supposed to be going, wasn’t he? People were after him… he should finish the drink, and go. He swigged the last of it, letting the thick liquid slip down his throat, burning all the way down.

He wavered out the door, and sobriety – in the form of a baton – hit.

Inside the cell, Garibaldi lay on the bed, and laughed mirthlessly.

(Perhaps not the women. Wives were so difficult. At least he was only afflicted with Timov now, and only sometimes…)

Londo settled himself on his couch, pouring himself a drink, sipping as he thought what move to make next in the great game.

It tasted sour. Sour and thick on his tongue, not pleasant at all. Londo grimaced, and put the drink aside.

Perhaps it would taste better with dinner.

He was proud of his station; the efficiency, the orderliness. The loyalty of the crew. Even the Zocalo and Downbelow and the craziness of dealing with the Ambassadors…

He smiled wryly. The Ambassadors were the point of the station; he should really remind himself of that more.

The Minbari were half the reason the station existed.

Sheridan Starkiller.

Something told him that that was going to come back to bite him in the ass.

Forcibly, he turned his thoughts back to more pleasant things. With this station and this crew, with his own experience, there was nothing he couldn’t handle.

This new hybrid body, so different and yet so familiar, made every day a new adventure, and Delenn revelled in the experience. Something about the sheer newness of everything and the difference in the senses made everything sharper and just… more.

And Sheridan Starkiller was one of those things that was… more.

Even within her own mind, recriminations were piling up; she could here her mentors’ voices, her former friends, and they disapproved.

But in the face of the feelings and the blazing senses, they melted.

Never before had she had such a lust for life, and she was going to grab it with both hands.

Envy

A stiff, tight smile is all that Linnear can give. Delenn seemed so happy, but he could not share it. Her dreamy smile, the palpable joy even in her serenity... she was brighter now that she had acknowledged her feelings…

Sheridan Starkiller, of all men. A warrior, a strong man, but the maker of so many Minbari deaths.

Valen give him strength, Linnear can do nothing but envy him.

His heart cries that he must kill the man, but his honour holds him back. One day, perhaps? But not now… not in her service…

So he can do nothing but watch, and envy.

Bester had always felt bound by the Corps. Bound in a service that was unstinting and complete… he gave his best. Nobody could accuse him of less, indeed, he could imagine nothing else.

The Corps was Mother. The Corps was Father.

He was provided for, given training and companionship… a purpose in life.

So he had to serve. Sometimes, he was not entirely sure of the rightness of the action, but that was not for him to decide.

He saw the power corrupting slowly, but did nothing.

After all, there was nothing he could do.

There was nothing anyone could do.