The alarms blare in the early hours of the morning, the noise bright and loud in her ears as she rounds a corner. Her feet feel heavy; the gravel scrapes against the bottom of her shoes each time she lunges forward. It's muscle memory, Kara tells herself, like riding a bike. You don't forget how to ride a bike.

The problem is, Kara can't remember what exactly it is her body's supposed to remember how to do. Foot to pavement, the muscles in the backs of her legs burning like fire with each step, she keeps running. Maybe she needs to run faster? A memory sparks in some repressed part of her mind, painfully clear for just a fleeting moment — a man in red, the crackle of electricity, saying goodbye — before the alarms fill her mind with noise again. The memory is gone as swiftly as it came, and Kara is surprised by the bitter disappointment that floods her in its absence.

Why should she be sad for a memory she doesn't recognize? The Computer had told her these things might happen. Glitches were common in new arrivals. Glitches of strange, impossible things were common, unremarkable, boring even. Glitches weren't worth talking about, let alone feeling sad for — good Citizens knew these Glitches should be best left alone.

But Kara does feel things, as strong and real as the tight, cramping muscles in her legs, and it's that knowledge that pushes her forward. Rounding a corner, her fingers catch on a ledge of a window above, and she groans with effort as she tries to pull herself up. If she can make it up to the window, she might be able to hide. Hiding might give her some opportunity to catch her breath, to relax long enough to think clearly, to find a way out of this mess.

Someone must know how to stop the alarms.