The city hummed below, muffled, as if drowned in gray amnesia. Gray streets, gray faces. John stood in the shadow of a half-ruined building, his fingers - still in gloves - trembling slightly. He had not taken Prozium for almost three days. And every second was torture. Or an awakening. He no longer knew.

The information he had received from the detainee had brought him here - to the edge of the refusal zone. The first real chance to contact the Resistance. Not for the purpose of destruction. Not today.

He slipped inside through the collapsed arch. Concrete crunched under his boots. His heart was beating too loudly. Before, he had no pulse. Before - he was a weapon.

In the darkness behind the columns, silhouettes moved. Blurred, like ghosts. He stepped closer, trying not to breathe. The weapon remained behind his back. He didn't come to kill.

"Who are you?" a voice rang out, sharp, slightly hoarse. Female.

He froze.

She stepped out of the gloom.

She was like a frame torn from reality. Alien to this concrete emptiness, in a jacket with torn edges, with eyes full of life. Not restrained, rational - but real, unbridled, inexplicable. Life that he had forgotten how to understand.

He looked at her, and something inside him trembled.

She recognized him instantly.

"Cleric," she hissed. Her finger on the trigger. "You've got the wrong door."

He didn't move.

"I... am not with them," John croaked hoarsely, looking into her eyes. "Not today."

She stepped closer, but did not lower her weapon.

"You're their right hand. The symbol of fear. The machine that burned our homes."

"I know," his voice broke. "I was. But now - I feel."

Her hand trembled. And that was enough for John to know - she believed him. Or wanted to believe him. Maybe that's why she didn't pull the trigger.

"Why are you here?" she asked quietly. Her voice was a little softer. Almost human.

He didn't know how to answer. He hadn't come for her. He didn't know about her.

"To... not be who he was," he said finally. "To feel."