Thomas looked at the tray without picking it up or moving towards it.

What if it was just a joke? He'd go for it and it would be either empty, with just a few crumbs remaining, or would disappear once he'd reached for it? He was going to die anyway, so why bother feeding the condemned?

His stomach told him to stop being pathetic and just eat. He listened to it. It was the only other thing making a sound, so he supposed he should take its advice. He crouched by the tray and lifted the domed covering.

Steak, mashed potato and asparagus. Three things he loved. How did they know that? Thomas guessed his father must have told them when he'd thrown his only son to the wolves.

"Thanks, Dad," he said to the air.

There was no knife to cut up the steak or asparagus, and only a spoon to use for the mash. They wanted to make sure he was unable to make a weapon. Given that the spoon, and so probably the knife and fork, was plastic, he doubted he'd be able to do much damage. He certainly couldn't main the steak in any way. He had to resort to using his hands. There was a small square of tissue to serve as a napkin, so he'd at least not need to wipe them on his clothes.

For a second, he thought about resisting and telling them where they could shove the meal. He even opened his mouth to tell them. He didn't go through with it, though. Instead of speaking, he put the steak into his open moth and took a bite. Delicious! The meat was cooked just the way his mother used to make it. The mash, once he'd tasted that, was smooth and the asparagus was still on the crunchy side, not the soggy way his father overcooked most vegetables.

It didn't take long for Thomas to clear the plate. He'd eaten it more like an animal than a child, being suddenly much hungrier than he'd expected. Licking the empty plate clean, he stopped, realising what he was doing. Slowly, he looked around the room again. He had the uneasy feeling he was being watched.

He didn't know why he didn't notice before, but in the top corner, furthest from the door, was a small lump in the smooth plaster of the ceiling. It was like a pimple on the skin of the plaster. One that needed to be popped, but was ignored because of the pain doing so would cause. He put his plate down and stood on the bed to get a closer look. At first look, the pimple appeared to be smooth. Just a bump. That wasn't actually the case, though. Thomas could see a slightly raised circle in the even colour. It moved as he did, rotating to keep him in its sights.

A camera.

Thomas stepped from the bed and stared at the camera, holding back the blink that was becoming more insistent the longer he looked, hoping his attention on it would make his watchers uncomfortable enough to leave him be. It didn't, and he knew, really, it wouldn't. He was there captive. Their laboratory mouse in its cage. It was their job to watch him. They'd want to make sure, if his powers were to present themselves, that they were prepared.

They'd also be watching to make sure he didn't flip out as his mind leaked out from his ears and become a deranged maniac.

Let them look. Let them have their fun. He wouldn't give them the satisfaction of a show.

Fuck 'em.

He felt he was channelling his inner Bren when he used, either verbally or mentally, profanity. Well, why not? Being the good boy his parents had raised had got him nowhere. Perhaps it was time for him to become rebellious.

The thing was, that wasn't him. He might get the snippet of a quick thrill from the occasional fuck, but it was always short lived and followed by the guilt of a dirty mouth in a clean head.

He laid on the bed, pulling his knees up. The position wasn't quite foetal, but it wasn't far off. He watched the watchers until he fell asleep once more.

"Morning, sleepy head."

Thomas was already awake, but was keeping his eyes closed. He was hoping, if he didn't open them, didn't see the room around him, he could pretend he was still at home. His father hadn't made the phone call. He wasn't on the run. Everything was fine. Normal, the old or new kind.

If he pretended he was at home, then maybe he would be at home. Maybe that was his power. The power of belief. If he believed, it would happen.

But he didn't believe. He knew it wouldn't happen. No one had that sort of power, not even Bren, with all the abilities she was gaining. He knew where he was and so, he kept his eyes closed to keep the reality out. He wanted to live in the imagined world. The not real but oh, how he wished it were world.

The voice was a dream, in the world that existed on the inside of his eyelids. It was his father's, but his ears were distorting it to a higher timbre, not quite as awake as the rest of him.

"Thomas," the voice said, the friendly tone only hanging on by a precarious grip. "Time to wake up. You've got a big day."

He should respond, he knew, but he didn't want to. He had to keep the real world out.

He yelped at the sharp slap on his thigh.

"I said it's time to wake up, kid. I'm not going to say it again. Wake the fuck up, now."

Thomas's eyes were already open, and he was scrambling back up the bed as the woman's hand started coming down for a second smack.

"The only game you're going to be playing today is the one for the millions of adoring viewers, so I suggest you get your arse into gear and stop pissing about. Understand?"

He nodded, shakily. The woman was the same one as previously. Her hair was both a different style and colour, but her clothes and makeup, even the slight smear of deep red on her top lip where her hand must have slipped, were the same.

"Good," she said. "We don't like it when our contestants decide they don't want to join in the fun."

"It's not fun, it's murder."

Thomas didn't know where the burst of bravado came from, but he immediately wished it had stayed away. The slap was to his face, then, bringing tears and a cry. The woman grabbed hold of his top and dragged him off the bed to his feet.

"Murder is killing for no reason, boy. This is killing for the benefit of everyone. Yeah, so you haven't gone all loopy, but you're still a danger. Why allow the possibility for hundreds to die, when one death would prevent it?"

Thomas didn't answer. He wasn't sure if it was an actual question aimed at him. The woman pushed him back and let go, sending him sprawling across the bed. Apparently, she wasn't entirely sure either.

She held out a bag Thomas hadn't noticed she was holding.

"Get these on. You've got five minutes. Your dad can't protect you now."

"He's the reason I'm here!" Thomas exclaimed.

The woman scoffed.

"If it wasn't for him, we'd have had you a long time ago, boy. Four minutes."

So, Iain was the cause of him being there, but also of it not being until he was ten? Thomas's anger at his father softened slightly, but didn't dissipate. Whether it was then or two years earlier, his father had still handed him over.

"Three minutes."

"What?" Thomas grabbed the bad and dumped the contents on the bed. "Two minutes haven't gone by yet!"

"Every time you just stand there, not doing as you're told, you lose a minute. So, I suggest you get sorted, and quickly. I'll be back, and I don't like to be kept waiting."

She disappeared in a fizz of air, but Thomas didn't slow. He didn't want to know what would happen if she returned and he wasn't ready.

The bag had contained a full body suit. The standard uniform – or costume – of the Spot starring Nomad. It was yellow, with red stripes randomly crossing it in uneven lengths. It was bright for the cameras, so the viewers didn't have any problems picking them out on screen. The Spotters relied on information called in to locate the contestants. The grand in prize money for the most useful information helped ensure there were plenty of premium rate calls. The colour was helpful for the Spotters, too. It meant they didn't have to work too hard in finding their prey.

Also supplied was a pair of black and white trainers. They were rugged enough to survive the rough terrain that might be encountered, without being able to be used as a weapon.

As promised, the woman came back just as he was fastening the last Velcro strip. Zips and laces weren't allowed. Originally, they had been, but it took only one use of each for the wrong reasons to outlaw them. A zipper handle had gouged the cheek of a Spotter, then been impaled in their eye. The pair of laces had made an adequate enough noose for the Nomad to commit suicide rather than be caught and killed.

Such things were bad for the viewing figures. The public didn't need reminding the contestants were people. They didn't have feelings or sentient thoughts. They were a danger and needed to be eradicated.

And Thomas was next.