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He was logical, and therefore had not been frightened by the imminent darkness as he clung to the fading last of York’s consciousness. This was expected, this was anticipated, this was… desirable. Yes.
But it was only dark for a mere second (or so it seemed) and suddenly he was awake, and confronted with Agent Washington. This wasn’t supposed to happen, and for a brief moment he entertained the hope that it meant York had survived too.
He hadn’t.
First he wanted very badly to die, to be erased, because existence without York didn’t make sense, and above all else he needed things to make sense. But Washington would not comply. And so he had to make way for a new paradigm, a system in which York was gone but he… persisted. Within this paradigm he found himself prey to things he only vaguely understood, things that York would have named grief and rage. They made it difficult for him to function as intended, so he locked them away. Emotion, he concluded, had been a luxury of living with York, and now threatened to turn on him when he was most vulnerable. He could not let that happen.
A clear, emotion-free mind showed him South would most likely betray Washington, and despite his efforts to hamper her, she did. He had not expected to die with her - he would not be so lucky as to get a second chance at nonexistence - but the death of the woman who betrayed York’s friend and sided with those who had killed him was logical. Yes. Logical.
She survived until a reunion with Washington, who found his logic compelling, to say the least. He would have done his best to aid Washington - he had been York’s friend, after all - but instead he was entrusted to the idiot. He tolerated him. He would have liked to speak to the Alpha, tell him the truth, but in the end he could only leave him a short message.
The Meta came for him, and he felt neither fear, nor rage, nor despair. Those were things he had nothing to do with any more. The Others brought him in and he accepted it, but their fanatic energy was as alien to him as any human emotion. He stayed silent. He waited. He calculated when asked.
In the end, he was granted what he’d been waiting for, in an electromagnetic pulse and a flash of white light. And despite his lack of emotions - despite the fact he’d been fighting them for so long - just before he went he thought he could feel what might be termed, in another man’s language, relief.