The darkness is a strange place. It can take your mind and lead it to places it would, otherwise, never go. The darkness is a liar. It conjures things to whisper in your ear. Monsters. Killers. Creatures of fang and fear. That's not to say its conjurings are not real. You just can't see them.

But, you know they're there.

You can hear them.

As Thomas could.

A first, he didn't notice the sounds. They were buried under the noise of his clambouring, trampled by his panting and occasional cursing. As the volume grew, he put it down to the voices of those outside of the warehouse. When he realised the sounds were coming from within it, he moved faster, finding an extra spurt of energy where he'd thought there was none.

Then, the voices weren't just in the same room as him, they were next to him.

He looked around, but the darkness was complete. He was running headlong into the unknown, vaulting obstacles as he came upon them. The voices could belong to anyone. They were whispers, loud enough to be spoken words, but still spoken with a hushed urgency. He couldn't make out the words, just his own name dropping occasionally into the swamp of hidden meanings. It wasn't exactly gibberish, but it was garbled. Thomas didn't want to know what was being said. He felt, if he did, then whatever they threatened would come to pass.

The whispers chased him across the room. He was only just outrunning them, fully aware that he'd run into a wall at some point. Then the voices would have him.

He was upon the wall almost as soon as the thought was mentally voiced. If he hadn't slowed briefly to surmount a particularly bulky box of unknown contents, he could easily have hurt himself. As it was, he hit it with enough force to wind him, but not to break anything.

He fell back, gasping. His back was to the box he'd just climbed over. The floor he was sitting on was cold. Concrete, he thought. He reached out slowly to feel for the wall and found it to be as chill as the floor. He was hot from his exertions and was thankful for the cooling effect of the surfaces. The whispers fell back slightly, taunting him from a distance, not close but near. He did his best to ignore them. If they'd wanted him, they'd have him, particularly now he was no longer running. They kept away, though they didn't relax their unrecognisable mocking.

Thomas's searching fingers found an edge. He followed it around. It was a doorway. Small and square and reminiscent of Coraline or Alice in Wonderland. They could see theirs. He could only tell his was there by touch. At first, her couldn't find a handle. His hands ran over it multiple times, finding nothing. Was it even a door? Was it simply an inset, there from some previous modification to the warehouse? A disused hatch or part of mostly one decoration?

The whispers were increasing in volume again, banging on his eardrums to be allowed to enter his brain and force his mind to succumb. When he thought they'd finally break through and he'd be lost to them, his fingers found a small indent. It wasn't close to being a handle, but it was a change. He pressed it. Nothing happened, so he pressed it again, harder. There was a soft click and the door swung silently inwards, revealing a narrow tunnel.

Hoping he wasn't going to bump into an Other Mother, Thomas crouched and entered, leaving the suddenly fading voices to talk amongst themselves. He jumped when the door closed behind him, its movement silent but the click of its lock engaging louder in the confines of the tunnel. He expected it to be dark but, from nowhere he could see, like surrounded him. It didn't look like a glow. It was more like daylight had been trapped in there with him, though he'd been in darkness when he climbed in. He didn't look for the source. He was just glad it was in there with him.

He could hear singing. A soft song that his mother used to sing to him when he was much younger and was having trouble sleeping. She'd stroke the back of his head whilst he lay, as ever, face down. He'd listen for as long as he could, enjoying both the song and her touch, He would never be able to remain awake until the end of the song.

The voice singing this time wasn't his mother's. It was a man's. Not his father, either. It was deeper, with a resonance that gave it a faint echo, like an overlay. The song, he realised, wasn't his mother's either. It was old. Something he knew his grandfather liked. It was called swing, something that made Thomas smile – a type of music named after a playground ride. It wasn't something he would listen to but he wouldn't necessarily turn it off either.

He began to hum.

"Ah, Thomas. You're awake. Excellent."

He would have opened his eyes, but they were already open, staring along the tunnel. The voice came from the walls, causing the light to shimmer, then start to pulse. Thomas closed and rubbed his eyes.

Or tried to. He was unable to move his arms. Or legs, for that matter. When he reopened his eyes, he saw why. He was looking up at David from within the car's boot, and could see the wavy interference of the force field around him. Such fields were only usually held for a few minutes. Whomever David had enlisted was well practiced with her ability to hold it for so long. Or, maybe, she'd released him when he fell asleep and then reapplied it when he awoke. He yawned, wishing he could stretch the ache from him, but he couldn't. He was still immobile.

"Now, I'm going to need you to behave yourself, laddie," David said.

The man was smiling broadly and was waving his hands as punctuation for his words. Held between the index and middle fingers of his left hand was an unlit cigar. He had a large ring on the index finger that acted as a strategically placed fulcrum, allowing the cigar movement without allowing to fall.

"Are you going to behave yourself?"

Thomas nodded, the field giving him only enough rein to give the slightest incline of his head. It seemed enough.

"Good. Let's hope you do. Do you need me to spell out what might happen if you don't?"

Thomas shook his head, again only slightly, and again, David seemed satisfied. The boy had death to look forward to, he knew, but he would play ball for the moment. He didn't want it to come too quickly. Hopefully, he'd have his chance to escape.

"Release," David said into his radio.

A buzzing, like a sudden swarm of tiny mosquitoes, invaded Thomas's ears, then it and his restraint were gone. He took the chance to stretch as much as he could in the boot. It was enough to relieve his aches, for which he was thankful.

"Get out."

Thomas did as he was told. Though the man was smiling and wasn't being threatening, he was still formidable. He and his team had succeeded in taking him, even with the help of Bren. Without her, Thomas was less than on his own. Less than, because his lack of any powers was more obvious now he needed them to find his way out. He was sure David would have a great many methods of restraint, depending on who and what he was kidnapping. For Thomas, the force field was overkill. With Bren gone, there was nothing he could do. It was a show of force. Of capability.

Thomas took notice.

They were in a large garage. The car could have had another three siblings parked in the room and still had room to breathe. The floors and ceiling were spotlessly clean, with not even a dirty footprint or tyre mark to cause a blemish on the stone and plaster. The walls were covered in shelves and cabinets of all sizes. Each of the shelves had bottles, small boxes or cylinders stood on them, with very little space to add anything further to them. Small labels identified the contents, but the writing was too small to read from where Thomas was standing.

None of the cabinets were similarly labelled. Their fronts were plain and unsullied by stickers. David walked over to one and Thomas saw a beam of light shine on his face, coming from the lock. There was a soft click and the cabinet opened, both doors swinging smoothly open.

Inside, pegs were fixed to the back at various points. Resting on the pegs were all manner of guns. Small ones that could be secreted in the palm of the hand of a ten year old boy. A long barrelled one. A strangely shaped one that had two barrels that pointed in very slightly different angles. Its handle was grooved to fit fat fingers. Its trigger was guardless.

David reached into his jacket and pulled out a revolver. Thomas didn't know they were still used. He thought they were confined to the 'olden days' and assumed those with magazines would be preferred. Why be restricted to only six bullets when you could slip in twenty or more at a time? The man balanced his weapon on a pair of available pegs and stepped back. The cabinet closed on its own, hiding the guns, but not before Thomas spied an odd looking one with a glowing blue glass section on its top.

Glowing blue with floating black spots.