Senses are designed to divulge information about the world around us. Classically, there are five, but neurologists have increased that number to varying degrees. Seven. Nine. Fifty-Three. Regardless of the actual number, we rely on them. When they are absent, in a way, so are we.

He woke slowly, his absent senses teasing him with the hint of sounds and differences in the darkness. They were fleeting glimpses of what might have been but, ultimately, were not. There were no shades of anything other than emptiness in the night that pressed upon his eyes. The only sounds were of his own movement and breathing.

At least he was moving. He was breathing. As miniscule a comfort that was, he clung to it. It was all he had.

He was back in the cage. Though he couldn't see the bars, he knew they were there. The floor was hard and metal and the same floor he'd previously been laying on. If he reached out, he'd feel the vertical poles of the cage, but he didn't want to. Why make it more real and feel more confined than he already did? He needed a drink. His mouth was dry and his throat hurt as if he'd either been shouting (screaming?) or a tube had been inserted for an operation and retrieved without finesse. He couldn't swallow without sharp claws of pain scratching. He licked his lips and could taste something that wasn't just his skin. Flowery, but not a flavour he recognised.

His former calm was shaken. This wasn't only a prison, and he was not simply a prisoner. They had been wanting him to wake up so they could perform a procedure on him, though what that might be was as big a mystery as his identity, location and the reasons behind not knowing either. Previous to Them, capitalised because they only existed in films and he wasn't in one, taking him away, he had been accepting of his situation, able to dissect it clinically, however pointless it had proven.

Now, things had changed. There was an organisation at work. One being in charge of another implied that. There was a plan. He, a simple man with a simple life, he thought, was part of that. Such a thing had cracked open the door to his resolve and allowed some to escape, lessening the amount he had to rely on.

The charge of the taser still jabbed at his side and chest, the two parts of his body used as target practice. He focussed his mind on the upper one. It was close to his heart, the supposed centre of one's being. Perhaps concentrating on that would give him some clarity by collecting his thoughts like rampant sheep gathered by a Collie. It would remind him what composure was like.

Aliens could be large headed, big eyed grey creatures, with elongated fingers perfect for probing. They could also be humanoid enough to be indiscernible from real people. He quickly discounted the possibility they might be extra-terrestrial. They wouldn't speak the same language as him.

What was it, English? Was he from England, then? He hadn't noticed an accent from his brief spoken words and didn't think it was to test the theory. His first outburst could have been forgiven. Any more would probably not be. Did being from another region or country register in a one's mind when they heard themselves? They would sound 'normal' to themselves, wouldn't they? Others would be the ones with the accents, surely. Our voices, inner or outer, were all we'd ever known, so others spoke differently. Others sounded weird.

Aliens, even if they did speak English, would have an accent found nowhere on the planet. He wasn't, therefore, in the mothership orbiting the Earth.

What else?

Organ harvesting? Was that a real thing? Of course, aliens were, but was the actual kidnapping of people to strip them of their ripe, juicy innards a practice that went on in the world? Quite possibly. An individual's body was a machine just like a car. It needed fixing every so often, and bits wore out but, if you kept it well fuelled, it could run for a fair while. And, if it didn't, its parts could be used to make others work better. They could be sold to grateful buyers, or stolen by thieves who would then sell them on.

Either way, the original vehicle, human or motorised, would then be discarded, with no further need to be kept around.

He wondered if he was there voluntarily. You could get anything, if you knew where to look, and weird was becoming more normal by the day. If adult nappies were a fetish, couldn't the desire to be held captive and experimented on? He could have paid for the privilege of being incarcerated, followed by the bonus package of fear, with a little experimentation thrown in for being a good customer.

He doubted that, though. He didn't feel he was the sort of person to enjoy that, and certainly wasn't enjoying it now. Without knowing who he was, it was impossible to say, but he felt as if he were there involuntarily.

Kidnapped.

Drugged.

Who knew what?

Senses were designed to allow you to feel and understand the world, but if they were removed you felt useless. You were powerless. The world was an ocean, and you were too inadequate to make the barest of ripples on its surface. You'd remain unnoticed. Uncared for. Just uneverything.

So, he had to become something. But how? If nothing was known, a theory couldn't be built. There were no blocks on which to perch ideas, wild or sensible, upon. He'd thought through possibilities, but they had been the wanderings of a mind lacking corridors of familiarity to wander along. They weren't substantial enough for him to develop, so were inclined to drift aimlessly until quickly dissipating.

He moved to what he judged to be the centre of the cage and sat cross legged. For now, there was only waiting. They'd be back, he had no doubt. They had spoken about cycles. They would return for him on the next one. How long they were was a question he didn't need to contemplate. What was the point? Time passed in secret, wrapping an invisibility cloak around itself that Harry Potter would be envious of. Its gait would speed and slow, dependent on factors only it was considerate of. Whether a person was busy. Tired. Having fun. Waiting for something. Time tossed these things about, like flipping a two pence coin, deciding whether to rush or dawdle. An hour could feel like a day or a heartbeat.

He would wait. It was the only option available to him, for now.

He closed his eyes and reached out with his hearing. He imagined tendrils stretching out from the sides of his head, each with a tiny ear on the end. They reached to the unseen extremities of the room, straining to hear.

He didn't really believe he could hear sounds from the far reaches of their prison, but it gave him solace to know he was trying to. He wasn't wasting his time.

Cycle.

What did it mean? Whatever they had been doing would be repeated endlessly? Did it have an end? A goal? Did they pick out subjects randomly, or was there a system? How many of them were there? How many cages? What ages? Genders? Could his ears tell him anything?

No.

Someone close by was snoring gently. More than one was crying, though the sounds were muffled, as if their inner elbow was the they had to a shoulder to cry on. So, sleep was attainable. Good. It rejuvenated you and kept energy levels up, in conjunction with food, which was yet to be produced. If they took the opportunity to keep their captives alive, it made sense they'd supply the requirements for them to remain that way.

At some point.

Wouldn't they?

There was a grunt and snuffle from the direction of the sleeper. The sounds of them dreaming. Any other time, it would have made him smile. He felt he was the sort to smile at such things, and would have liked to at that moment. Instead, he was anxious. He knew he had caused the other person to be taken away. It was unlikely to have been for coffee and cake, the way they were begging, so the sounds from his neighbour were an instant worry. He didn't want them to be subjected to what the previous outcrier had potentially been.

Though...

He was newly incarcerated. These others could be veterans, having been taken (or presented themselves, depending on their kink) some time ago. One night for him, if it was only one night, didn't allow him the capacity to make conclusions. Not ones that would mean anything. The truth was hidden from him, obscured by the endless night time surrounding him. Surrounding them all.

Would it reveal itself?

Only time would tell, and Time was being decisively evasive.

The sleeper mumbled. It was a murmur with the promise of being intelligible if only a smidgeon more volume could be applied. Volume was forbidden, however. Any sound was.

"Ssshhhhh!" he wanted to say, loud enough to settle the person, but that would make him the target.

He had to remain silent and keep his soothing tohimself. He was not without personal need, so it would be better appliedinternally. He could only hope the sleeper would intuitively be aware of thedanger they could be in.