Nearly a day had gone by with minimal environmental change. He had unclasped the bracelet and tucked it away after the first few hours, but the fucking identification number had burned its way into his permanent memory for good anyway. M02-344 didn't mean shit to him in any way but the obvious, and even if the concept of numbering humans for sorting wasn't unfamiliar, it did feel antiquated. He had long outlived the days of social security and driver's licenses: even before the sudden and frustrating gaps in his memory those had been replaced with more important concerns.

The unwelcome sight of one of his scratched X in the wall pushed him to abandon that useless train of thought. He sank down to the floor and propped himself up against the uncomfortably warm wall, mind turning to the ration pack jammed down into one of his pockets. When he finally heard the faint echo of footsteps he had already begun to worry at the edge of the packaging.

The labyrinth had offered a fair number of corners to hide behind during his exploration, but bad planning left him with little option to stand and square his shoulders, stuck between the approaching footsteps and a long, curving hallway that simply ended.