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He feels his pulse slow from a sprint to a jog to a walk to a standstill.

The way his feet thunk onto the ground as he comes to a halt,

The way his heart doesn't feel like it's fighting to escape

The way his throat doesn't feel like it's about to close up.

The way his eyes don't search

The way his ears don't listen

The way his mind doesn't analyze

The way his breath doesn't pant

'Tracking?' the male voice comes back.

'Done,' is the short reply, before the line falls silent.

'Canon?'

'Clean.'

The speakers above him seem to be talking to themselves, but he follows their source with his eyes anyway, taking in the towering ceiling-high screens that are playing the surveillance footage of what he had just walked through.

The rectangular screens surrounding him on the wall are filled with streams of code that flicker past at a speed which matches the rapid beating of a heart.

He swipes grime off his hand onto his chest armour, smearing black over grey. He is beginning to notice that things that are actually clean, are in fact, dirty. When his equipment doesn't wear down, it is smudged. When the marks on his face don't fade, they start to grow.

He knows that the walls and the floor of his cell are slippery, but he is trying to work out how this metal he can see streaked with black, got into his eyes.

This is his life now, working to bleed it all away with a set of strokes on the keyboard. The way his fingers grip the keys, just a little too tightly for the comfort of his hands as he sends off letters of code and checks on the results.

It is Monday.

It is Wednesday.

It is Monday again.

The things he has seen, the people he has met. The things he feels he has done and the work he has had to do to forget. Even the things he has done 'for a laugh'.

He pulls his legs in tightly to his chest and kicks off hard, springing forward and thumping his heels on the floor with each quick scrabble of toes on floor.

The code is speeding past him in a blur, and now he finds that he needs to concentrate to actually make it out.

'Tracking.'

'Done.'

'Canon.'

'Clean. Tracking on confirm.'

The floor is cold on his feet, as he leans forward and grabs his knees. He opens his mouth,

'Tracking on confirm.'

'Control, do you read?' the male voice said.

'How many did we get?'

, and inhales sharply, forcefully expelling several coats of dust that had built up in his throat.

'Control, do you read me?'

'Is that it?'

'Control, do you read?'

'I think it's done,' he mutters to himself.

'Control, do you read?'

'Danger. This is in danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.'

'What is your location?'

'Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.'

'Control, go to ERAP.'

'Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.'

'Situation?'

'Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.'

'Control, what did you do?'

'Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.'

'Control, mode?'

'Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.'

'What are you seeing?'

'Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger. Danger.'

He is rocked forwards as a pair of fingers hit his back. When he feels them let him go, he sits upright.

'Got it,' the male voice said.

'Procedure?'

'Standing by,' he answers.

The metal doors open to the light of the City. It's words flash past and he is pulled from his chair and out into the light.

'Lockdown,' the female voice tells him. Doors slam behind him as the Cold rest in the room, folding shut.

He stops to look around him. There were no longer any signs of his previous intelligence.