Written for bloodyvalentine, pre-episode 11.

Power is the product of voltage and resistance.

First there were memories of Charlie and Danny, Miles and Nora, blurring apart from him. One week blended with the next-in moments of lucidity he'd think it was impossible for Danny to have come with them all that way, but then the next moment he wouldn't be sure.

Then, later, there were specific memories before the blackout. Mostly Priscilla, who he'd thought he was long past missing. He told himself this was a sign of progress-the Mathesons had gotten away. He'd been a step too slow, a punch too hesitant, but it hadn't gotten any of them killed.

And then, later still, it seemed like they knew when he was retreating into a memory because their weapons had come all the more. Blades, sliced from a distance across his dry skin. Sometimes they'd withhold food, which made him twitch all the more because he couldn't count the passage of time. Or they'd kick him awake at odd hours-well, odd for the semblance of a routine he'd developed.

Even there. Even in the dank cells of the prison, there was some way to keep a steady routine. Or if nothing else, a pattern of thoughts. They don't have enough electricity to waste on newfangled devices for me. They have to ask me these same questions, because they haven't gotten any more information. The previous day he'd blurted out "of course I don't know where they were going, I haven't seen them in as long as you have! How long has it been? Can you give me, I don't know, one of those page-a-day calendars?"

They'd given him an extra bruise. He thought.

So, his thoughts flickered away from the specific, towards empty voices, reciting theories anyone could have learned. Power is knowledge is work over time, and as time passes, the knowledge left behind goes to zero. Knowledge is power corrupts, study and turn evil. Power is voltage over resistance, and the harder he stands firm, the more effort he can draw into himself, away from anyone who matters.

The problem with standing firm was it required feet, healthy toes, and without looking he wasn't sure whether it was worth the effort. His beard was still there, grown down his neck-they took his glasses the first day, but he suspected he didn't want to look too closely at whatever else he was sharing the cell with. His fingers were scarred, curled up into fists around him.

They almost hadn't been. After the first-four?-days, one of the interrogators had said that it was okay, if he didn't know. Of course they'd gotten separated, she understood, the republic wasn't going to be unreasonable. Give them a hand, and it wouldn't matter what specifics he knew-he could have access to the technology they'd rebuilt, help society piece itself together again.

He'd wanted to. A warm meal was almost as tempting as the chance to work, at that point. And maybe Charlie or Miles would have called him naive, but it was Ben's memory that rooted him in place. The others were lost, they'd have to fight on their own, but it was easier to imagine betraying the living than the dead. He felt closer to the dead.

So, he'd blushed quietly, head down, and then it was back to the rapid-fire questions and bruisings. No one had hurt his tongue, perhaps assuming he'd be desperate to cough something up, eventually.

When the end came, it was in the form of another underling, this one younger than the previous. "Pittman?" she called, as if there was anyone else in earshot. Clearly, this was not a recruit who knew the routine.

Aaron lay curled up, eyes closed, breathing shallowly. Amps equalled volts over ohms. Resistors could be added in series, or reciprocated in parallel-yes, it would have been easier to crack him if, if some of the others were there, vulnerable to punishment if he'd kept silent. Was that-?

"Oy. Pittman?" she repeated, before cussing out either him or her bosses for assigning her such an unexciting duty under her breath. Taking a few steps back, she held a piece of paper up to the crack that must have been the door, squinting.

Aha, so she had been briefed. Sure enough, she came over and beat at him, and his instinctive flinch presented proof he was still alive. The muttering resumed, this time wondering who Aaron was, important enough to waste-

"What?" he blurted. Maybe he'd misheard.

She shrugged. "Unless you've got some news for us, you're a waste of space as it is."

"Well aren't we blunt," he muttered, "are we going to play this out a little? Offer me some food or a nicer living quarters?"

"Maybe you could start by explaining how important you are to this little operation."

"I think I've gotten written up in a magazine, once," he yawned, "you could try reading."

"Do you have anything to say for yourself?"

"P equals IV," he responded, "although it's not for me, it's true for everyone-"

"You're insane," she shook her head, "I don't know why we bother."

She took a gun from her belt, and Aaron stared up at her with blank eyes. Was he insane, was he expected to figure it out?

He was still wondering when the bullet broke through his face.