The words on the screen disappeared and the power light on the camera went out.

Job done.

Thomas wondered how many others had been given the chance to speak before being fed to the wolves. Insanity probably didn't make for a calm, compliant reader. Insanity and abilities, he figured, didn't make for calm or compliant. He imagined that most Nomads were thrown straight out of the door. There were stories of them being drugged so they could be put in the right place for the games to begin. A forest. A park. The rubble of a once tall apartment block. He couldn't remember ever having seen a contestant giving a speech beforehand.

He hoped he didn't come across as awkward or immature. The words weren't his, of course, but, the audience wouldn't know that. Even if they suspected – after all, who'd be looking forward to being hunted? - the truth would never be revealed, just as with the drugs. There were rumours and conspiracy theorists. They were the sort of people who'd pick apart anything to find the lies deep within. Perhaps his speech would win him some supporters. Helpers, even.

Perhaps not. The Spot satiated the bloodlust of the viewers. They wanted the Nomad to be caught. They wanted to see the killing and imagine it was their superstrength or their electrical shock talking the life of the dangerous individual who was wearing the yellow costume.

So what if it was a child? They couldn't be allowed to continue. There were no safeguards to prevent them hurting anyone.

Or, there were, but the viewers weren't told.

A Cell could hold a contestant, or anyone empowered, without them being able to escape. Much in the way a Blocker kept people out, a Cell kept them in. It was a tall enclosure, like an elongated wardrobe. It would never fit in a normal home, so was situated in warehouses or hangars. Some were outside. There weren't many about. They were bulky, expensive and not completely foolproof. With a success rate of 85%, Cells were seen as the best way to solve a problem. The 15% of failures were a recognised and accepted statistic.

They couldn't hold someone indefinitely, so they were only really meant for short term use. It had been seen that, after a while of the incarcerated struggling to escape, they often settle down, believing they'd never be able to. They were wrong. Cells could withstand about an hour's worth of constant abuse before their protective bindings broke down. The locks would release and the person inside would be able to get outside.

On many more than one occasion, the escapee was killed on exit. Cells were kept guarded, and the guards had instructions to eliminate whomever was inside as soon as they ventured outside.

Cells worked, though. Yes, there were deaths, but mostly, the person lived until they could be moved or put on the Spot. It was a way of containing them without major risk of injury to anyone else.

It was a Cell, not a drug, that was used to transport Nomads to where they would be let loose. The Cell was then destroyed. It became part of the rubble of the world. There ws no point in keeping them. They were invariably damaged too much to be reused.

Thomas stood, waiting for either door to open and for him to be taken back inside the complex or sent out for the Spotters to have their sport. Nothing happened. Next to his face, the air fizzed and Lloyd's disembodied face appeared. It was faint and he could still see the far wall behind it.

"Good luck, Thomas," she said quietly.

He was about to answer, but she was already gone. Only a faint crackling sound, like invisible popping candy, remained, and that, too, had faded completely within a few seconds. He sighed. She wasn't a friend, or particularly nice, but she'd still taken the time to give him a boost. He appreciated the gesture.

She could, of course, have let him go.

He heard a fanfare start from beyond the second door. It was an energetic, pumping tune that vibrated through the floor, pushing his adrenaline to make his heart beat in time to the music. In spite of himself, he felt the excitement of the hunt. He couldn't help it. He knew what was coming. Hundreds of thousands of eyes would be on him. People would be cheering like dogs barking at a fleeing fox. For the first time, he was ready.

He had to be. Not being prepared would mean his death would come sooner. He wasn't going to survive, that much was predetermined. He'd make his death count.

The door swung open, allowing the music to flood both the room and his body. Flowing in through his ears, it carried him out, as if he were a tide under the whim of a full moon. A moon causing the world to howl at him.

He walked slowly to the door and looked out. He couldn't see the cameras, but knew they were there. They had to be. There was a show to put on. There'd be cameras on fixed mounts and on drones, ensuring he was always in sight. For those times he might slip through their net, there were the viewers.

"Tommy! Tommy! Tommy!"

He heard the chanting from speakers inset into the outer wall. It was almost drowned out by the fanfare and struggled to squeeze in to cacophony. Thomas heard it. The repeated calling of his name, sounding like an arena full of people calling for him. In some places, that's exactly what there was. Cinemas and auditoriums would show The Spot, giving fans the opportunity to see a child being murdered on the big screen. Something about the chant sounded fake, however, as if it were the same person saying his name, overlayed time and time again to create the illusion of multiple voices.

None of them were his mother, so he hated the sound. He might have hesitated to exit the room before, but the chanting gave him the incentive he needed. He had to get out of there, just to get away from it.

He went through the door, which closed silently behind him. The chanting and fanfare stopped, leaving a vacuum that no sound or breath seemed eager to fill. He felt as if he were standing on a precipice, with an abyss dropping away from him. It was an inviting void, one he could easily fall into.

But no. He had a show to give. A death to make matter.

The silence was shattered by the sharp blare of feedback from a speaker switched back on. The celebratory music played in the background, but was muted to allow a voice to be heard without shouting.

"Laddie, we'll give you your two hours, but not a second more. If I were you, I'd start running."

"And what if I decide to just stand here?" he shouted, not knowing if David, for the voice was clearly his, could hear him.

"If that's what you want to do, then go for it, laddie. We'll still wait two hours, except for you it'll seem like ten. Then we'll come get you, you'll die and we get to go home early. You'll leave some very disappointed viewers, but I get paid either way."

Thomas had no intention of staying where he was. David was right, if he did, the hours would drag. If he ran, they'd be over before he knew it and his death would seem to come that much sooner. He didn't want it to come at all, but if it had to, he wished it a swift journey.

The Spotters, though, had only ever had the insane as prey. He was still in full control of his mind. They'd caught him once already, but now they wanted to kill him. It wouldn't be so easy for him. He'd be prepared.

"So, what's it to be, laddie?"

Thomas raised his hand, palm towards himself. He bent three of his fingers, leaving the middle one up.

"I always liked you, laddie."

"I wish I could say the same," Thomas answered. "Actually, no I don't. I never liked you."

David laughed, a sound that made the speaker crackle with its harshness.

"Good luck, laddie," he said, but the boy was already gone.

For a few minutes, Thomas felt free. He was running, his legs hitting the floor in the rapid succession of someone taking pleasure in the speed they were achieving. The wind was loud in his ears and his breathing, rather than being ragged, was calm. For those minutes, he wasn't fleeing or looking for somewhere to hide or trying to escape his death. He was simply running. Then, as his foot caught on a thick cable leading from a broken section of an old office building down into a drain cover, he was quickly reminded of the reality of his situation.

It hadn't occurred to him, as he was standing outside the door he'd just left, to look around. Now, he had the chance to. He realised he had no idea where he was.

In the early days of The Spot, there were problems with over exuberant fans or anti-Spot demonstrators. The fans would gather outside the contestant's exit and hold them down, thinking they were helping the Spotters. Many were killed as a result of tackling a Nomad who had left their mind back at home and so had no concept of how to use their powers. Others fared better, and the result was that the contestant was killed.

The demonstrators universally met the same end. They fell victim to their misguided protection of the contestants. They were unprepared, looking in the wrong direction for their enemy. Or, so the producers of The Spot said. They were quick to use such episodes to highlight why their show was such a necessity. Their opposers became their best advertisement.

Still, it was deemed a wise precaution to not have a fixed location for the Bin, as the Spotters' preparation base came to be called. Well, they were disposing of garbage. Since the Outbreak, there were plenty of ghost towns and abandoned city districts that were suitable for Nomads to be hunted. All that was required was a few rooms. Some to be used for sleep and holding, and one, as David insisted, to be used as a mess room. His bacon sandwich pantomime was well rehearsed and always successful in showing the contestant exactly who they were dealing with.

Lloyd's 'good luck', or Varity's before that and Holton's before that, made the contestant, or at least those still able to understand what was happening, feel they had an ally among the Spotters.

They were wrong.