Rick Deckard drank to forget. Forget the pain of losing Rachel. Forget the pain of losing Batty, although he suppressed that part of him. Whiskey and Rum were his friends now.

But he couldn’t. Not when the replicant’s final words echoed in his head. “Time to die.” During their fight Batty was so energetic, why? Why, when he knew he was going to die? Did he just want to see Deckard in fear, cowering beneath him? Yes, that was it. The replicant must have reveled in Deckard’s terror. Batty never let himself appear afraid but Deckard knew he was. Everyone was afraid of death, and a replicant who was searching for a way to extend his life was certainly no exception.

Deckard wouldn’t let himself think of Batty’s first name, wouldn’t let himself use it. It made Batty feel real. Batty felt real in the moments that he was hanging off of a ledge, fighting for his life, but not in his memories. In Deckard’s memories Batty felt like a dream. Their fight was a worthy one, and Deckard wasn’t usually the type of person to care about “honor” or “worth.”

He remembered the way Batty looked, his face covered in blood. Looking down on him. Beautiful. Handsome. Deadly.

Deckard should have died. He almost wished he did. No, not almost. He should have died with Batty, that’s what should have happened. It would have been fair. Nothing is fair.

It wasn’t fair for Rachel to die. It wasn’t even fair for Batty to die, even though he deserved it. It wasn’t fair that the replicants were specifically built for their cells to degenerate. It wasn’t fair that they were built to serve and then die just so they wouldn’t be able to live life fully.

Deckard knew that the Tyrell Corporation was corrupt. All corporations were in the past, which continued to be the truth in the present, and still would be in the future. Replicants would continue to be pumped out in factories that polluted earth and pushed people to live off-world.

Maybe, if Deckard ever dared to return to the city, he would find a replicant that looked like Batty. He would never find one that looked like Rachel, she was built to be unique, but Batty was just another model. His body was just a shell to the amazing mind he developed. Not maybe. He would. Which is why he would never return. He couldn’t bear it. Knowing Batty was wasted.
All that bloodshed and effort in vain.

Over the years, Deckard had come to sympathize with Batty’s motives. Was his murder truly any different than Deckard's own killing? No. That line of thinking was discouraged. He couldn’t think like that.

So he stayed in the ruined countryside, completely alone.