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.

And he could recall them.

Not the names or anything from the opening credits. Not the actors, either. But sequences. Car chases. People chases! Gunfights. Police officers jumping over cars and criminals thrown through windows and being handcuffed. He could see it all. If only the faces of the actors who were clearly the main stars struck a chord with him. If just one name would push through the mire and announce itself to him, it would be a start.

None did, and they all remained anonymous. It didn't matter. They were there! His mind was no longer a complete blank! He just had to figure out what else had resurfaced. His train of thought had stopped at just the right station for his mind to disembark and be enlightened to a certain type of television show. The path had been random, based on Ryan finding himself still in his cage, and pleased to be so. Good. It should be easy to let his thoughts run riot, until they tripped over something else that would uncover another aspect of his mind.

They had left him for an age before. If he hadn't spoken out, there was no way to tell how long he would have remained untouched. His next cycle could have been imminent or weeks away. Would they allow him to starve for all that time? And why had they done so in the first place?

Unless...

Was this place a giant laboratory, and he, along with the others, were glorified lab rats? Were stamina tests being run on how long it took individuals to crack under pressure and cry out for sustenance? Would there be a maze? If he beat the maze would there be a salt and vinegar hedgehog sandwich at the end as a prize?

It made a strange sense. Those cycles could be the test periods. They could start off short and increase the longer the subject was there for. Or... survived...? Being dragged away for speaking... What was that? Were you killed, as Ryan envisaged, or moved to another lab? Or, perhaps, released, your memory returned with a handshake and a smile?

The ban on speaking could be to prevent the sharing of information. The more Bradley was met, the more she would give away. It might be only snippets here and there, but those snippets, pasted together and mixed about, could result in a picture she didn't want to be seen.

So, he needed to find a way to communicate with the others. Some, he assumed, had been there for much longer than him, so must know a fair amount, whether they realised it was useful or not. Now he'd realised it, Ryan could use the knowledge against Bradley when he saw her next. He could try to lead the conversation deliberately to leech something useful.

He would also watch out for the 'cycles' of others. As yet, there hadn't been any, which was unusual. He couldn't be the only person to be taken out for consultations with the doctor. He's lost track of how long he'd been there, with his mindlessness blurring the lines between hours or days, making it feel as if they were swapping places randomly to tease him. Add that to the week Bradley had informed him of, and it could be... any time.

Ryan berated himself for the wallowing. Thinking about what was happening was futile. Not thinking about it was just as useless. As was attempting to delve into the depths of his mind, because all there was, was depth. It didn't matter which way he turned, nothing he did achieved anything.

So, he had to accept it. When he first awoke here, he was calm. His lack of memory didn't bother him greatly. He needed to return to that frame of mind. Once he'd managed that, he'd be able to move forward with his plan.

But, how? Was it so easy to put your thoughts in order? Could they be aligned in a way to stop them from jumbling or sinking into despair? Yes, they could. He would make them.

And no time like the present.

He closed his eyes to internalise himself. It felt comforting, and something he was used to doing. He could shut out the sounds of the world outside – not that there were any at that moment – and he could think.

As soon as he did so, Ryan's mind seemed to explode with all the questions and fears he was experiencing, but not voicing. It was as if he were screaming at himself and trying to shut it out, but was unable to because he was the one screaming. Rather than try to silence the cacophony, he allowed it to cry itself until hoarse. His mind felt sore. Ragged, but, somehow, appeased.

He opened his eyes again and, though the darkness was still complete, it seemed a little lighter.

He was back in control. Bradley wouldn't expect that. She'd think he was still the scared inmate she'd previously met.

She would be wrong.

He was still leaning back against the bars of his cage, with his legs stretched out. He dropped his hands to the floor and, with his palms flat, moved them across the surface in a sweeping movement. He wasn't searching for anything, or trying to find imperfections that could become, with enough work, an escape tunnel. It was a motion of relaxation. It indicated he was settled. He was accepting and content to wait.

He was... feeling something.