"Tick, tick, tick, tick, tick," he singsongs. The wheels carry on round, scrape, scrape, scrape, it's not as rhythmic as he'd like but it's good enough. The test subject is twirling and panicking, shaking some sort of spectrometer like a maraca, joining in with the polyrhythm.

The subject takes out the can and sprays. RDX is most sensitive to detonation at minus four degrees, four below freezing. Idiot. Just as well he only froze the surface and left the inner core warm and breathing and ticking. Stillman always did love to take little risks like that. Wouldn't it have been easier for him just to tell the kid to cut the red wire blue wire yellow wire and get them all blown up early? That would have been something to see.

He pauses for a second, and smiles at the test subject broadly as the tick-tock ostinato runs out and dies.

"You've lost the rhythm," he spits. His head still dances with it. And the next thing he knows he's on his knees and one of his skates has broken.

There's a final click, a cymbal-beat of a gun cocking, and he looks up at the test subject, who's smiling. His heartbeat pounds in his ears, counting down the seconds before detonation.

Ten nine eight seven six

"Believe it," the test subject says.

five

He smiles, the smile of an angel, he's four hit rapture in battle as much as he says he hates it. Wow, three, he's passed the test. He would never two have guessed.

one

He shuts his eyes for the finale.

Boom.