Ryan pressed stop on the cassette recorder.

So, that was the deal. Bradley Sr thought he was God, or a god, and was going to tell the Grim Reaper he was redundant.

"Sorry, mate, but you are no longer required. Thanks for all your millennia of service, however... yeah... We're making some changes and there just isn't room for you now. You understand, right? You're a good worker, and we'll give you exemplary references. You'll get something, I'm sure. We're having a few drinks for you down at the Pig & Whistle later, if you fancy it. Just make sure you finish those reports before you clear your desk, OK?"

"No, you can't keep the scythe."

People had been trying to discover immortality for as long as there'd been people. Why would Bradley think he was going to success? What did he have that everyone else didn't? The man was an egomaniacal lunatic. He was never going to solve the riddle. It was impossible!

Except...

Cycling. In the interview, it had been mentioned, but Bradley had not wanted to be pressed further. There must be a later tape with the revelations on, or perhaps it was a presentation for some wealthy clients who all desire to live forever.

Cycling. That, in itself, was a form of immortality, wasn't it? If he'd died on multiple occasions and the younger Bradley had shot herself, yet still been able to sit and talk to him, didn't that mean they were immortal?

Actually, no.

From the example of the bullet to the brain he'd witness in Fiona's office, they were different bodies. Both had shared the same room. That meant they, and he, were copies. Duplicates of the original, identical in every way. That wasn't immortality. For that, you were the same person throughout, just enjoying an eternally extending life. In this case, you were...

Clones?

This wasn't Orphan Black, a television show he knew – he fucking knew – that he liked. This was real life. Clones were the stuff of science fiction, and science was so far away from being able to have viable clones, it had to be fiction. Dolly was a sheep, not a person. That was inherently more difficult... wasn't it?

Whatever he might be out in the real world, Ryan was no scientist, of that, he was sure. He had no idea if reproducing a person was feasible. What else could it be, though? Doppelgangers of everyone were supposed to exist. Multiversal variants had been created in comic and movies. There was no way to know. What seemed certain was that he was not the first him. If Bradley, the daughter, could shoot herself and still be sat talking to him, he had no illusions about his being the...

What would it be called? Primary? Original? And what if he was the fourteenth in line to that throne? Was he a long lost, far distant relative of the Ryan who had been kidnapped and forced into being an experiment?

Was he him?

He considered the possibility that it didn't actually matter. He could mourn the first, but they were like a great grandfather they'd not even met. There was a hint of perfunctory grief and that was all. They could be identical in every way, down to the colours of individual hair strands and their reaction to the taste of a bacon butty. They could also be complete opposites. Auburn instead of black. Vegan versus lover of the aforementioned bacon. Fat to thin to tall to decidedly average. Is genetic proximity to the long line preceding him was immaterial. Fuck it and fuck all the Bradley's there were or had ever been.

He was Ryan. The one and the only. That was how he needed to think and it was the truth.

He sighed. Had the recording told him anything? Not really. There was some grand purpose behind his capture. That didn't make it any better or redeem his captors. If it was so vital, wouldn't people simply volunteer? Perhaps he might have himself, if asked.

He wasn't, though.

He looked around. Why was there no one crashing through the door to stop him reading important documents? How was he able to listen to a full interview without interruption? And why was that particular tape just left there?

Because...

The crafty shits.

Because it was staged. Because they knew he'd find his way there, or wanted him to. It was all an act. Pedra had played her part well, completely fooling him. He'd really believed she wanted to help. Her reaction to Bradley's call had been so sincere.

The bastards!

So, to what end? Why not shoot him and bring in the next contestant? Ryan the 15th could well be compliant enough for them. They wouldn't have all these issues and there'd be no need for the charade. If they didn't, there had to be a reason. There had to be something about him keeping them from cycling him yet again, or he'd be laying on a floor beside a previous version of Bradley Jnr.

How long they were going to allow him his investigation was unknown, of course. They wouldn't wait indefinitely, but if he was valuable to them, they'd give him leeway. He could play it either way. Sit and wait and not take part in their game or use the opportunity given to find out all he possibly could. He could do the former, and was eager to do the latter as much as he could. If this was a trap or part of their plan, any information would be only as available as they wanted it to be. They could be trying to lead him to certain conclusions that had no bearing on the truth.

Well, let's see, shall we?

Going through the reports had given Ryan nothing, but he had been looking for connections. What if there weren't any? If they were deliberately placed to throw him off any genuine discoveries, the reports would be totally unrelated. What if he stopped looking at what they had in common and, instead, searched for what they didn't.

Which made no sense. He was trying to be too clever. He wouldn't find anything useful in the Records Room, because they would have ensured it wall all just one big misdirection. But from what?

So. They were allowing him the liberty to explore. Pedra had guided him to this room, where a taped interview had shown him that Bradley, both of them, were the benevolent benefactors of all Mankind. They deserved adoration, not mistrust. He should be throwing in his lot with them and allowing the experimentation of him to continue. It was for the greater good.

It was... never going to happen.

The planet was being flushed down the toilet, and the Mankind he was trying to save had pulled the lever, then left without washing its hands. Bestowing immortality on all Humanity was pointless if they were immoral. Uncaring. Wasteful. Why not make changes along those lines? Instead of extending the life of the people on the planet, why not extend the life of the planet itself?

Ryan scratched his head. It was painful to think about the scale of the Bradleys' delusion. It was an impossible dream they were trying to make a reality. The thing was, dreams were fantasy. Not reality. Bradley and Bradley, and everyone who had fallen under their spell, were...

On the right path?

For fuck's sake. He had been killed, yet he was alive. He'd seen the doctor shoot herself, then sit beside him and chat. What if they were telling the truth and he was part of something so immense, he had to join in? Or, what if he had not actually been killed, just abused. What if the dead Fiona was just an actress? A lookalike? A twin? No one had died. It was a deception. Maybe there was n reason behind it. Dad was a billionaire who like to use people for entertainment. His daughter was no relation. She was an actress like her dead double. Pedra and Jarvis and everyone else were paid to screw with his mind.

People could be made to believe anything, no matter how convoluted or conniving. A memory pushed through the shadows of his mind of a television show starring a mentalist he liked. D... Derek? Derren? David? A man's family were unhappy with his lack of direction so went to the extreme, with the mentalist's help, of making him believe there had been a zombie apocalypse. False news reports and car troubles and television outages led up to a supposed meteor strike. The man fell for it.

Was he, Ryan, falling as completely? As ludicrous as it seemed, it was also completely plausible. Well, while he was living it, anyway. If all of this had been told to him by another, he'd have thought them as crazy and he was thinking himself.

And, perhaps, that was what they wanted. Confusion. Doubt. They made a person vulnerable and willing to believe almost anything.

Well, it really didn't matter. Whatever would be, would be, so he had to let it. He also had to stop getting tied up in the ropes of indecision. They were entangling him, and he was losing focus on what he was meant to be doing. Getting information.

There was none to be had in this room. Everything was planted to guide his thoughts a particular way. If he did continue to search, he would undoubtedly uncover more whilst understanding nothing. It was a very elaborate hoax, one he was surprised had been concocted just for him. That meant there had been more. He wasn't, again, the first. How many others had been fooled by what they'd seen and heard? How many times had he?

Who knew and who cared? None of that changed hiscourse. He could either be caught or escape, and if he stayed put, only one ofthose would come to fruition.