Richard Woolsey has never been a man of ambition. Technically speaking.

Oh, he has the fancy suit, the secret government job, all the résumé boosters you could ask for. He has the power to relocate, fire, even kill at the drop of a hat. After all, he's practically in the Vice President's pocket. He could be a millionaire, he could be a world leader, he could be a tyrant.

But that power has never been used. It's been kept safely hidden away in the pocket of his crisp button-down shirt, never to be used. He doesn't need that kind of power. He's just along for the ride.

Until today.

He likes to think he is a man of honor. The fights he picks are chosen carefully – he never steps over the line, though on occasion edging closer than would be considered prudent. Sometimes he sympathizes with those on the other side. But he has never felt so wrong as he does today.

He stares out the window through the gauzy curtains. The stiff, meticulously neat apartment seems stifling and awkwardly out of place this early spring morning. For the first time, he wishes things were different.

The events of the day before spiral in his mind. They mingle in and out between the rest of his thoughts, never surfacing for long, but always present.

He allows himself a quiet sigh. He has no right to go marching back into General Hammond's office and ask his forgiveness. Hell, he wouldn't be surprised if he was booted out before he even reached the door. But he had to do something.

He stands, pushes his chair carefully under the desk, and straightens his tie. As he leaves his apartment, he pulls out that power he's been saving up all these years.

He thinks that this may be the last battle he fights, but he is confident. Today, at least, he has made the right decision.