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?

Taken from Royal Road, this narrative should be reported if found on Amazon.

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."