Sometime after sunset, when they've dragged themselves inside, I take control.

By this time, Mum's already gone to bed, with a cup of recently drugged tea clutched in her hand.

Last night, I had to do a little extra work on the pill front to make sure both of them stay asleep tonight. Crushing pills into the tea bags, the coffee mixture. Replacing them with food colouring and hardened kitchen roll.

Dr. Light is much harder to convince, but eventually he takes a cup of tea to bed with him.

Brill. Now I can get on.

I'm tempted to create one of those to-do lists, with the glitter and post-it notes of every colour of the rainbow. I don't have time for that tonight.

Originally, I wasn't going to use the sedatives on them tonight, but that was before I saw the van.

It's hidden surprisingly well, shoved in the bushes at the side of the house, covered with a dark green tarp to create the illusion of undergrowth. I wouldn't have noticed if my other self hadn't tripped over the carpet in the living room. Being a clumsy twit does have its advantages. If all goes well, everyone will think I am a permanent twit. They'll never know that I am strong, I am smart. I am everything.

After the slight Doctor Steele scare, I'm back living the dream. Even though my lungs burn.

If Doctor Steele had crawled out of that dumpster by himself, he would've alerted the Foundation. Then what? I still have no idea what they want from me or why they've done what they've done. That does leave the possibility that someone else moved him, which isn't too comforting either.

Never mind, I need to focus. First order of business: the cashbox. Last night, I remembered storing a cashbox somewhere or other.

Furthermore, I need to sweep Dr. Light's room, since last time, I ran into...difficulties. Those noises on the other side of the door still prey on my mind, each one a constant echo.

I know there's something wrong with him. Thin painting, thin painting. He's about to crack.

Perhaps it would be better for everyone if I killed him tonight.

Crawling toward his door, I press my ear into the divots. No sound – nothing. Not even a sliver of movement. Wonderful.

As my hand closes around the door handle, something inside me stops, considers. Stop it! Stop acting like a fool.

Shaking my head, I shove the door open and stride into the den of the dog. That's what he is. The dog of the Janus Foundation. Better yet, he's the errand boy. He probably reports all my little misgivings. Well, all her little misgivings. Our misgivings.

I suppose, after everything, we're not so different after all.

Anyway, moving on.

The room has been tidied, in fact, it's now immaculate. Nothing like the den of unwashed clothes and strewn paper I saw before. Everything is spotless, except the man himself. Technically, he's more of a boy, wearing a man's suit.

When he's asleep, with all those hard lines removed from his face, he looks almost my age. Whatever my age is. I'm guessing it's around sixteen to seventeen. Sixteen and a half? He's at least in his early twenties, but his mind must be over a hundred.

Mumbling, he turns over, the duvet falling off his back. His shirt is ripped slightly.

Gripping my now preferential weapon of the dinner knife, I step toward him. It's better this way. She won't be able to get hurt if he's dead. This is what I have to do to keep us safe. She would understand too if she wasn't so wrapped up in pesky things like morals and compassion. Which is why I lower the knife and sigh. There's something just so wrong about this, so unfair. He can't fight back and... It's almost like killing myself. I was – we were – helpless in that facility, and now he is.

Rolling my eyes, I turn away. She can keep him, for now. Whatever. He's just so, so boring.

Ignoring my hesitation, I go to work, checking under as many floorboards as I can. The hollows of the walls are almost empty. It's when I reach the back of the closet that I finally find something. And no, it isn't Narnia. As much as I wish it is.

Taking out the rusty cashbox, I empty a crusty pile of dollars into my pockets. I think I stole these. Rummaging around the wooden boards, my fingers sweep against a piece of paper. On it are two initials, most likely a first and last name.

T. C

Tabby? Tanya? Tana? Is that my name? No. They don't feel right. Besides, I'm not allowed a name apparently. I'm just some sick Doctor's special project.

Throwing the piece of paper back into the alcove, I slide the back of the wardrobe into its original position. I need to check out that van. I need to stop putting it off. What if it caught my last escapade on a surveillance tape?

Panic surges, and I force myself to pace until I feel calm. If you panic, you make mistakes. I've made enough already. It's time to go.

Using the same window as before, I tamper with lock, although it takes some time before I can force the window open. The copper wire is fraying rapidly – soon the magnet won't be any use.

Climbing out of the window, I pull myself up onto the roof. Slate licks against my feet, while the night sky slices me in half. No makeshift mask tonight. I want them to see me. Surprising as it is, I have quite a few questions to ask.

It takes me all of three minutes to get to ground level, run along the side of the van, and begin to search for an entrance. The front is unoccupied, which I was expecting. They may be stupid, but they're not that stupid. The side door is locked, obviously, as is the rear. No fancy number lock on these things, oh no. I'll have to do it the old-fashioned way. Reluctantly, I rip the copper wire out of its insulator, bring it closer to the lock on the side door. I can detect movement from inside, but nothing major. They're not exactly alert. Outside, the street is clear, all the other suburban prisons sitting comfortably on the sidewalk. All those petite gardens formed from pink flowers. Hatefully normal.

Slotting the copper wire into the lock, I retrieve the dinner knife to begin picking open the door. It's easier to pick locks on doors, but not much easier.

Eventually, after a few minutes of countless twisting and inner monologue swearing, I hear a satisfying click.

Open sesame!

As the movements beyond the door intensify, I swerve to the side, just in time. The door slides open, letting loose the upper body of a man dressed in black. He peers around, and right when a smile crashes over my face, he sees me.

Hello. Here I am.

Before he can even move an inch, I shove him back inside the van. Inside my new interrogation room. There is no point asking the obvious of 'who are you' and 'why are you doing this'. You won't get a response from that. You need to start with facts, show them what you know.

Besides, I have a blunt dinner knife and I'm not afraid to use it.

However, the other man in the van – man in the van – isn't afraid to use his gun. He reaches for the holster, while I aim a kick at the other man's abdomen. He crumples, lets out a guttural whoomph. I don't give him any time whatsoever to recover. I shove him repeatedly into the bleached steel interior, slamming his head against several black computers. That can't be good for the keyboards, never mind his useless cranium.

The other man finally points his gun at me. Or does he? He can try. Sadly, I'm not feeling very cooperative today.

Throwing computer man to one side, I duck and slide across the floor, reach under the other man's chair and tip it backwards. There's no gunshot – thank god. A wild bullet is the last thing I need tonight. Rolling him back, I elbow him in the chin, knee him in the groin. He drops the gun.

"Thanks," I smile as I pick it up. The two men lie in the corner, half slung over a fallen monitor. The white interior of the van really brings out the forming bruises on their faces and the blood on their lips. Everything else in here is fairly high-tech, with several monitors that depict shots of the exterior of my house.

Dr. Light's steel-grey Ford Fusion is still parked in the driveway, probably gathering dust. Anyway, none of that matters. It's time to get to the point.

"You've been surveying me since last week. Why?" No answer, just a quartet of groaning.

I point the gun at computer man's chest. If I shoot, he'll bleed out on the floor of this badly decorated van. Painfully.

"What does the Janus Foundation want with me exactly?" I've learnt when asking questions, you should show what you already know. That forces them to check their knowledge, because they don't know how much information you already have.

Stepping closer, I reunite computer man with my dinner knife. Pressing it to his throat, I ask,

"Who is Dr. Light? One of your operatives?"

"He's just a Doctor!" His scream is a little uncalled for – I mean, we've only just met.

"Fine. Why haven't you people killed me yet? Hmm?" This time, he answers. His voice is grating, like the knife in my hand.

"You're not supposed to die," he rasps. "They need to know whether you're still useful to them". Useful. As if I'm some possession they can access whenever it pleases them.

"Go on," I press. The man shakes his head.

"You're useful now". They are the last words I hear before computer man lunges up and snatches the gun. My fingers slip, and I fall backwards, hitting the floor of the van with a smack. Damn it.

Pointing the gun, he aims for my legs. That tells me a lot: they don't want me dead, they just want me immobile. As the great philosophers used to say, that's too bad.

Invading his space, I slide my leg behind his, tip him back so the gun is aimed at the ceiling. From the corner of my eye, I can see the other man holding a syringe. Never again.

Swinging gun man in front of me, I bundle him into a headlock, hopefully crushing his windpipe along the way. The syringe inches closer. No. I am not their possession, I am no one's project.

As my mind deviates, falls down that black hole, I want to scream. Not now. I don't want to remember this now. Fuzzy faces dressed in white. Whipped cream white stained only by smiles. One woman is holding a syringe.

"She's used to the usual sedatives. We have no choice," someone is saying.

"No, she's fighting them. Our big brave girl," someone else chips in, their voice soft and sensual.

Shivering, I yank myself out. Or I try to. White walls, like the outline of the van, surround me on all sides. People with multiple syringes, multiple smiles are coming. Coming. Coming towards me. Leave me alone!

Lashing out, I hear a snap then a slump. Gun man drops forward, thuds onto the floor of the van. It doesn't take me long to realise what I've done. The man with a syringe steps away, eyes wide. It's as if he didn't expect me to kill him. I know the feeling. I didn't expect to have to kill anyone. But here I am.

"Useful now, am I?" I snarl. I don't pick up the gun, oh no. I have a blunt dinner knife.

"That makes one of us". Now, he is no use to me.

The man drops the syringe, the action so sudden a little part of me hesitates. Hesitation will always be my downfall. Using the opportunity, he tackles me head on. We grapple for the knife, testing each other's limits. I'm reasonably bendy, while he's stiff as a rake.

Even though my Mp3 is in the house, a song reaches my head anyway: You Don't Own Me. You know the original one from the 1960's. I'm guessing this guy has never heard of it.

Elbow to the chin, a kick to his thigh. He stumbles, but his arm locks around the back of my neck, forces me to stumble too. Sweat clings to my hands, while the knife starts to slip.

Bringing it closer to my body, I headbutt him in the face. He staggers but doesn't let go.

Swinging to my left, he feints right, avoiding my swipe to grab the knife. I try to slide it across his fingers, but it's too blunt to do any real damage at this distance. I should have brought the stapler. Any attempt I make to knee him in the face – or in another appendage – won't work. He's too close and I don't have enough momentum. Sighing, I choose to sacrifice the knife. It slips through my fingers and I spin, bending down to grab the gun. I come up, ready. I am ready. Except... I'm not.

Agony splashes across me, new and raw.

The knife slices through my skin, the bluntness of the blade making it all the more painful.

Staggering, I brace myself on the wall of the van. Blood seeps like draining bathwater from the cut.

The man seems to be as surprised as I am, but unlike him, I'm already in motion.

Snatching the knife away, I stab it into his chest.

The gun is in my other hand, but it wavers cautiously. It's as if the gun itself doesn't want to be used. The noise – that's what's stopping me. That and the fear. The shaking in my hands.

Her voice is what stops me. She is the reason I hesitate. I can't keep her in the dark for much longer; she has to know. I have to tell her.

The blood loss is starting to affect my speed. The man launches himself at the gun, so I dodge, snagging the knife. Rising up, I bury it in his back. It doesn't pierce deep, but it's better than outright shooting him. Better for me. The gun flickers in my hand again, reminds me that bullets are far quicker. I must have zoned out, staring at the gun, because the next time I look up, he's coming at me. Presses me against the wall, the syringe back in his hand.

No, not again. Never. Again. Never.

Gritting my teeth, I close my eyes. The knife. Maybe, if I try for his eyes, I'll pierce his brain as well.

But it isn't the knife hand that I raise.

It's a trigger I pull and a bang that I hear, and I feel blood splattering all over me. Coating me. Telling me that I am bad, that I am wrong.

Gasping, my lips taste the red. The man caves onto me, bleeding profusely from his neck where I shot him. Dead. Shot. I shot him and he'd dead and he's dead because I shot him.

Shoving the body away, I fall to my knees. My own knife wound is still bleeding, covering me in my one true colour. Maybe I did kill all those innocent people that day. That day. Three years ago.

I want to vomit, but I don't think I have the strength.

Stumbling out of the van, the night air hits me like a bullet. The bullet lodged in that man's windpipe. I did that. I killed him. It wasn't the same with the Nurse; she pulled the trigger on herself. It was an accident. This feels like an accident too. As I start to shake, I realise I don't know what happened. The memory has turned all fuzzy.

Below me, the street glistens, just as the blood is glistening.

Even though the sky is dark, it feels as if there's a spotlight shinning down upon me. As if everyone can see my every move. I might as well be an animal being watched behind glass.

Eventually, I stumble onto the road, weak at the knees and unable to move another inch.

Clutching my side, I can feel myself falling.

Falling into black.