Valetni stirred from his sleep. Slowly, feeling every one of his years, he hauled himself to his feet. He crossed the room, barefoot and clad only in his undergarments to the closet. Sliding open the door on its track, he pulled out first the leather harness. Putting it on and securing it, he began hanging the various items that he habitually carried on his person. He frowned, noting that he was carrying much less cleaning supplies than he had traditionally carried. Come to think of it, he hadn't once carried out any sort of maintenance duty since his accident. He dropped a metal wirebrush, and as he leaned down to pick it up, the agony in his legs reminded him why. Valetni placed it back in the closet. He leaned against the frame, closing his eyes.<br/><br/>Perhaps it was time to retire.<br/><br/>Valetni sighed, he wasn't getting any younger, only older. He was at that age when a man began to think of what he may leave behind when he was gone. His face twisted as he pondered his legacy. He would be forgotten in one, maybe two generations. He hadn't thought himself the type to obsess about this stuff, traditionally keeping himself focused on the task at hand. And one task in particular. But how many years did he have left? Valetni wouldn't lay money that it would be more than ten, probably around seven. He raised his head, ignoring the heaviness in his neck muscles. Seven years until he died, he wondered how it would happen. Would he slowly struggle to find breath? His ravaged lungs no longer bringing him his precious oxygen as he slowly drowned in his own fluids? Would he one day simply not wake up, his eyes jaundiced and his liver failed, having slipped into a coma that he would never recover from? Or perhaps it would be his kidneys, and he lingered on for a few more days until the buildup of toxins in his system finally did him in. He shuddered. It was a ghastly thing to ponder. He clenched his fists, he was so damn brilliant, yet he couldn't do anything, all this potential and he couldn't save himself. He slowly let out a shaky breath.<br/><br/>No. Was he not Valetni? He would not die, he would suffer, he would linger, but he would never die. He would not allow such an ignoble fate to come to pass.<br/><br/>He opened his eyes, and in them burned a fierce resolve.<br/><br/>Dying was for other people.<br/><br/>With new found determination, he hung his new gas protection apparatus from the harness before donning his robes. He stepped into his sandals, and took a firm grip of his cane. The thick, textured live oak felt good in his hands. He turned to the bed, preparing to remake it. That was when he found it.<br/><br/>The journal.<br/><br/>Here.<br/><br/>On his bed.<br/><br/>Valetni never took his journals from where they rested. It was too much to risk. This confirmed his suspicion. The book had been stolen, and then it had been returned. The only question was, had somebody read it?<br/><br/>Valetni slipped it into his robes, and then squared his shoulders. Turning to face the door, he opened it and strode through it. He would have to get to the bottom of this mystery, but for now, he was going to have to see a man about a boat.