CELL

/ NINE /

Ryan opened his eyes.

He was expecting to be in the esteemed company of Dr Fiona Bradley. He should be on a bed in a room that looked as if it was taken straight out of the local hospital's Accident and Emergency department – wherever the current locale was, of course. He was sure he wasn't in Kansas, or Grimsby, anymore. There would be glaring white walls and ceiling, too bright for his light deprived eyes, but welcome nonetheless.

And there would be her. The doctor. Devious, the cause of both pain and incarceration, yet, again, welcome. She was another person. One he could converse with, regardless of the subject of the conversation.

There was only the darkness. The cage. The emptiness in a room full of people.

What had happened? He could fully remember them coming for him after he, stupidly, opened his mouth. He'd heard the taser. He'd seen its lightning beckon to him. Then...

He couldn't remember. They'd opened his cage, and people had come in. He could see nothing until the taser ignited in front of his face. Its sudden appearance illuminated the faces of Ryan's visitors. He had seen them before, in the light from the door. A pair of obvious twins. Albino? The flash was too brief for details, but he couldn't miss the matching absence of colour in them. With the light flaring up from under their necks, they appeared to be chillingly ghostlike. He didn't have time to properly take in the third person, but assumed it was the soldier who had accompanied them previously.

Then, nothing.

He couldn't remember the sharp stab of electricity from the weapon or being dragged away or... anything.

There must have been, mustn't there? They wouldn't have simply come to him, rather than for him, and left without doing something to reprimand him for speaking out. It didn't work like that, did it? Ryan had witnessed it happening. It wouldn't be different for him, so why was he still there?

He was confused, but relieved. For there to be the fear from the other prisoner when they told him to be silent, repercussions had to be severe. It seemed he had been spared them.

He wished he could remember what happened after they'd entered his cell, let alone anything else, but there was only the prevailing desolation where memory should have been.

Oh well. At least he was still alive. And, amazingly, he was no longer hungry or thirsty! Both urges had been quenched! Whatever they'd done had included satiating both requirements. For that, he wasn't particularly concerned about it anymore. He had no pain and was still in possession of all his limbs and extremities. He seemed to be untouched.

He could still eat a hedgehog sandwich, but no longer had a desperate craving for one. He felt as if he was always in the mood for it, whether hungry or not. It was a general must have, like coffee or chocolate was to some.

He settled back against the bars and stretched out his legs, sighing quietly. Was he getting used to things? He felt happy not to be hungry and was far less concerned about what was or might be happening. Yes, he was wary, but there was no fear.

Was that natural? Was it even right? He thought through his situation, piece by piece. Snatched. Deleted. Experimented on, if that was what was happening. It had to be, really. Why else would he be there?

If a serial killer had kidnapped him, and all the others, it would be different. The killer would have shown themselves. They'd taunt their victims with threats or false promises. They'd feel the need to show the power they had, not just leave their prey alone, unless they spoke out of turn.

Bradley had come for him even though he had said nothing, and had spoken of cycles, so he and those like him were visited periodically. Again, that was something a killer wouldn't do. They could be methodical, but were they so patient? So regimented? Not in any of the shows he could recall.