His gaze cuts back to me, and for the first time since he turned his head toward that doorway and found me in the dark, I see something other than assessment in his expression. Something that involves making decisions quickly. He reaches out and grabs my wrist.
Not rough. Not gentle. Purposeful.
"Come with me," he grunts out. I look at his hand. Look at the corridor behind him. Look back at his face, which is doing the thing where it isn't showing anything but is clearly running complex calculations at significant speed.
"Straight to the kidnapping," I say, "bold strategy. Some might say we're skipping steps."
"We're leaving." He's already moving, pulling me into the corridor, his grip not tightening but not negotiable either. "Now."
"Oh, thank fuck," I say sincerely, falling into step beside him because the alternative is being dragged, and I have some remaining dignity I'd like to retain.
"Leaving was very much the plan. I had a whole plan. It needed work, but the intention was there."
He moves fast, keeping us against the wall, his free hand coming up to track the corridor ahead with the practiced efficiency of someone doing tactical work on a timeline. He knows where he's going, which isimmediately useful since my mental map of the facility has several gaps in the sections I never had access to. I pocket that information.
"You know," I say, keeping my voice low to match his energy, "objectively speaking, this is the best morning I've had in approximately three years. The bar was on the floor, but still. I want to acknowledge the upgrade."
He glances down at me without slowing. Something in his expression shifts almost imperceptibly, not warmth exactly, but the recognition of something unexpected.
"You're insane," he says, shaking his head at my nonsense.
"The clinical term is 'adaptive,'" I tell him, "but yes, essentially."
We round a corner. He stops, checks it, and continues. The damage gets worse the further we go. Walls cracked, one section of the ceiling partially collapsed, and the wreckage of equipment that cost more than everything I'll ever own was scattered across the corridor floor.
He navigates it without breaking pace, pulling me around the larger debris with a hand that knows exactly where I am relative to the obstacles. I notice that. I notice a lot of things. It's a habit I developed in a small room with nothing else to do.
Another roar tears through the facility. Closer this time. Directionally confusing, which is the worst kind. The floor transmits a faint tremor immediately after, like whatever made that sound weighs enough to register in the architecture.
He moves faster. I match him.
"Hypothetically," I say, because my mouth operates somewhat independently of my survival instincts and always has, "if whatever that is reaches us before we reach the exit-"
"It won't."
"That's a confident position."
"Yes."
"Based on-"
"Move faster."
I move faster. We're running now, his grip shifted to accommodate the pace, and the corridor opens ahead into a wider junction I recognize from my mental map. Loading access, rarely staffed, which means it was either locked tight before everything fell apart, or it's the best option currently available.
Given the morning's general trajectory, I'll take the odds.
"Hey," I say, between breaths. He doesn't answer.
"I don't know your name." A beat of silence filled with running footsteps and distant, terrible sounds.
"Colt," he grunts.
I turn it over.
"Zero," I say, "formerly known as Subject O-00. Currently known as your problem." He makes a sound. It might be a laugh. It's compressed very small, and it goes past quickly, and I can't be entirely sure.
We hit the junction. He reads the space in half a second and commits left without hesitating, pulling me through a door that gives under his hand. It’s unlocked, whether by design or the morning's events, I don't know, and I don't care. I just go through it.
