[ The voice in his head makes him clench his teeth. If he keeps going like this, he will flatten them. He groans, angry sound from the back of his throat, and pushes a hand to his head. Shut up, shut up, shut up. Parker has only grown increasingly angrier as time goes. The supply of antivirus is limited, he has no friends here (he does not and refuses to make any and will continue to act as so until he dies, because he wants to have nothing to do with these people), he has no purpose and he does not want to help anyone in whatever fight they are supposed to fight. This is not his battle. His is back home. His responsibility, his purpose.

It is what destroys him the most. The loss of the self. Hits too close home with the infection within. The loss of the self is what scares him the most.

No wonder he looks constantly tired, either, with his constant struggle of keeping an instinct that he refuses to acknowledged as his to become part of the rest. He doesn't want to belong. It is a battle that he doesn't back down from. He's persistent. He's a fucking cockroach. He has survived something nobody else has back home. Parker is stubborn enough to believe that he will get through this obstacle too.

So while everyone heads to the gym, he pushes in the opposite direction. He goes upstream the river. Bumps someone hard enough to push past them - not necessary, but he does it for his own selfish benefit. Like pinching yourself; he goes upstream to avoid the flow. ]

[ He only barely looks at the gym when he passes by it once again. Judging look, a sneer, eyes up and down the figure in the center and trying to shut his own mind down. Wants to become silent, even if he has no idea how to start. Somewhere. He has never been one to back down from a challenge, anyway.

He walks down the corridors of the Station. An uneasy feeling of crushing loneliness washes over him, sudden, like being hit by a train. He stops dead in his track, breathing through clenched teeth. This is not his own feeling. He feels it, the pull to go back to the room. To go there. To participate. He fights it. Closes his eyes, curls his fingers into the palm of his hand, hard enough to push his nails into skin. This is not his own.

He stops by the chamber where the rooms connect and stands in the middle. Looks up, trying to understand this place, this prison. There is a way out somewhere and he is going to find it.

There is a creaking behind him and he turns, slowly, hand on where his gun usually is but isn't there. He sneers. ]

What are you doing here?

[ Because the reason why he is is clearly nobody else's business. ]

[ Parker is not in the training arena to train at all. It certainly looks like he is just there as if he had gotten lost. Not that he gives off the feeling, but he isn't running. He isn't practising. He is just standing there, looking around. To the walls. The ceiling.

It does not matter to him if he is an inconvenience to the others using the tracks. He stops dead in the middle of it, mapping out the place with detailed attention. Has a pen, scribbling something in his old, tattered notebook. Taking notes, doodling things. Learning, mapping, detailing the Station. Trying to find a weak spot. Many weak spots. He hasn't had much luck - yet. He's patient enough to study every damn corner of this hellhole until he finds one. And once he does, he is going to exploit it.

He does not belong here.

He pushes himself up the higher place of the shooting range, to inspect the weapons. None cause real damage, so that's useless to him. Picks one up and sits down with it on his lap, scribbling something on the notepad and clearly uninterested in using any of the available facilities. He doesn't care for when there is a gathering down there, doesn't care for the briefing and very purposefully hums a song inside his head, as loud as he can. It is the only way so far he has found to push out thoughts. Some preteen act of rebellion. ]