G'Kar of the Narn

Subject:	To Mollari, upon his return
Time:	10:07 am.

Londo's quarters are obnoxious. I hate them. His portrait stares down at me, those regal, steely eyes, no depth, no dimension, just floating and judging from his heavy gilded frame. I despise the portrait.

Mr. Garibaldi would not let me in for fear I'd disturb the crime scene, but either he and Zack have completed their investigation or he finally succumbed to my wrath, because when I arrived here last night the guards were gone from the doorway, and the security seal gone from the door. There is still a placard where Mollari's name used to be: "Quarters Sealed by Order of Babylon 5 Security," but the quarters were not, indeed, sealed. I can only assume that Mr. Garibaldi has taken pity on me, for he knew I would return here the moment he was gone. He would not say as much, but I think he is concerned for me. I would not say as much, but I am grateful for his concern.

And here I am. This room is awful -- the air is thick and heavy and perfumed, the bed too soft, the carpets too plush. Everything smells of musk and Mollari. It is making me sick.

And -- yes, here, just like this. I'm seated at Mollari's desk, just so, I've taken the position he was in when I last saw him, in his transmission to me. He sat here, yes, one hand around this glass of brivari, still untouched, the syrup thick and crawling up the sides of the crystal now. I cannot feel him when I touch the glass. I smell the brivari, and it smells of him, but not of him, at the same time. He is present in this room, and absent just the same. He is. Not here.

I lean forward, as he did, switch on his terminal. Carl Sandburg, that human poet, two words, a security code.

"Carl Sandburg," I say, and the message shimmers on screen. I've read it enough, too much, too many times, I think. I close it again.

"Computer, begin recording, private message to Londo Mollari."

The computer beeps. I am sitting too straight; I hunch, as he did, I take a drink off the old, sticky brivari; it wears a coat of dust. He had one hand on his chest; I clap my breastplate in a salute.

"Mollari," I begin.

( private to Londo Mollari, upon his return )

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