An earthquake shakes the room: another of Barclay`s feet crashing down.

　　Waylon`s body won`t move, though.

　　He stares out at the man, suspended within the core of his own mind. Blank, placid, empty, and weak. Not even enough strength to spur a thought.

　　"Where`s Avery?" Barclay asks, his voice an iceberg cutting through stone.

　　Fear pulses once in Waylon`s chest. Thoughts surge. A landslide tumbling through his mind — alongside his disembodied form. They pepper him: chunking pieces away until only an abstract sphere remains. Devoid of feeling, yet full of questions. Why aren`t I moving? Am I— am I okay? Am I just going to stand here and let him catch me?

　　Barclay cracks his other set of knuckles. "Staying quiet, huh? If she`s hurt... Well, it`s not going to be good for you."

　　No.

　　It`s an answer that burns in his stomach. Guttural, desperate, and not his own. It sets his chest aflame and straightens his cowering spine. Physical sensations that he recognizes, but where`s the feeling? The emotions?

　　No, this can`t be it. Not yet.

　　Barclay nearly shatters the earth between them with the fall of another boot. "I recommend you don`t resist."

　　Whatever drives those primal thoughts wrenches Waylon`s body; controls muscles and tendons like a puppet`s strings. It spins him around on his back foot and yanks him down the hallway he came from, forcing him to sprint. Back toward the refrigeration unit — deeper into the bowels of the aquarium. It`s a clumsy sprint. Ugly, even. Born from his life as a sedentary househusband and the aches of his mid-thirties.

　　In contrast, Barclay jogs after him. His arms don`t flail, his stride doesn`t falter, and he doesn`t lose his balance. It`s effortless for him. "Wrong choice." He calls.

　　Waylon runs along pipes, twisting and turning and wrapping around. Corridor after corridor. And everywhere he goes, the steady shuffling of Barclay`s boots follow.

　　Heat bubbles up from within Waylon`s jacket: a rolling haze of musk that seeps into his nose. Sweat. It`s soaked through his shirt, his pants — his peacoat`s cotton wicks away the rest. He sucks in a hoarse breath and suddenly, he`s back. The fear, defiance, and guilt there for him to feel. What happened— no. Think, damn it. Just think! What can I do? What do I know about him?The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

　　Albert`s information packet was sparse on heroes he may run into, but Barclay was there. Waylon teases the report from memory.

　　Six-three, two-hundred three pounds; raised by Swedish grandparents; friends with the aquarium`s owner... every other field comes up blank. Wiped away by stress and urgency.

　　Waylon pants — they come from deep in his chest and grate past his vocal cords. Why the fuck can I remember where his grandparents are from but not his power?

　　However he tries to trick himself into remembering, all he can find is what he`s already recalled. He throws a glance back.

　　Barclay`s there, most of him cast in darkness. Except for his eyes. They glow: glowering balls of molten rage that spark and spew orange tendrils of smoke. Bobbing along with his jog.

　　Control slips away again and returns within a moment, like Waylon`s sense of self is a series of microscope lenses flicking back and forth. He tears his eyes from Barclay and scrambles down another corridor. What— what do I do?

　　Concrete, shadow, and metal pipes shift in his vision. They distort as if under water, shimmering and warping in organic patterns. What`s happening? Am I crying?

　　His body continues on, sprinting outside of his control. A bead of water rolls free of his eye and down his cheek. He`s barely aware of the sensation: only a strip of salt left behind leaves a lasting impression, drying and crackling with the stretch of his skin. It`s odd. Juxtaposed to how he feels. What do I feel, though?

　　Nothing comes of the question. No surge of fear, hope, or even resignation — just confusion at the silence.

　　"You`re feeling hopeless, right? " Barclay says.

　　I— I can`t tell.

　　Barclay barks a haunting laugh. "Maybe if you weren`t a coward, I`d have managed some respect for you. Ronan wasn`t one. If he hadn`t resorted to crime, maybe— no. You and your ilk exist. Pulling good people down into the muck. Poisoning their minds."

　　Wasn`t? Is Ronan alive? Is this man going to kill me?

　　A flame flickers in Waylon`s chest, but it dies the next instant. Cast to darkness by a cold wind howling from within his mind. Despair?

　　"You`re probably thinking this is all that`s going to happen. That we`ll do our little jog. In the end, I`ll catch you, then turn you over to the police. Right?" Barclay says.

　　One of Waylon`s legs gives way. He starts to fall. Black hair whips through the air behind him and his stomach jumps. He claps a hand on a nearby pipe, but his skin catches on a rusted bolt. It rips a gash down his palm.

　　He crashes to the ground, a pile of sprawling limbs — of blood and apathy. Roughly finished concrete digs into the gash, burning.

　　You can still make it. You can escape.

　　More mysterious thoughts, full of urgency and impulse that he can`t feel. Though his body responds to it unbidden. He pushes himself up and stumbles toward the closest door, leaving behind a red-fingered streak on the concrete.

　　I can`t. He thinks. I can`t escape: not anymore. Yet his body pushes on, fighting against all sense in futility.

　　Barclay breaks his pace into a heavy-footed walk. "No, it`s not going to be simple. Far from it."