I've exhausted myself by shouting, kicking and beating the door. The side of my right hand has split from the force of one mighty blow to the heavy metal door.

But it was all to no avail. Unless, of course, whoever is observing me derives pleasure from watching a hysterical young girl busting herself up. Then I guess I've provided them with a good show.

I managed to stem my bleeding and wrap my hand in a makeshift bandage torn from a piece of my shirt.

My shirt – Kade bought me this shirt. I quietly cry when I think back to that day we went shopping together for my new work wardrobe. Kade picked out almost everything; he has such a good eye for what looks good on me.

We took so many selfies on his cell. My hope is that he looks at, and remembers them, more than the last time he saw me, holding onto topknot guy.

......

Exhausted, I rest my head back on the wall and berate myself. I allowed the normalcy of office life to seduce me. Weeks of ordinary life with Kade and the others lulled me into a false sense of security. And when the time was right, when I took my eye off the ball, I scored an own goal and allowed them another victory.

It's my fault I'm back in a cell, banged up in Chicago. Who knows what they have in store for me. But you know what, I'm gonna go with it. I have no more fight left in me. I've truly, totally, absolutely given up.

They got me. Let them do as they wish with me.

......

I find my memories are an escape. I re-live my relationship with Kade, going over all the momentous moments in our time together. These reflections make me feel warm inside and as I look at the six dots scattered around the wall, I know whoever is behind them, observing me, will see me smiling and perhaps wonder, why?

I amuse myself by naming the dots. You'd be amazed where you find entertainment when you're in solitary confinement.

......

One of the dots is blinking furiously; I suspect something is about to happen. Light floods through the dot and I follow it as it projects onto the wall. It's Kade's texts to me:

Tan, who is that guy?

Reply 2 my txt Tan

Tan, what's gong on?

Where r u ?

Txt me Tan

Answer my calls

Y won't u take my calls?

Tan, please, answer

I'm worried

Lets talk

I'm drunk

I luv u

Y were u huggin tht guy?

I'm falling into my dark

I need u Tan

His texts are presented individually in different colored speech bubbles, all projected onto the wall like some candy colored slide show. And to make the show even more ludicrously hurtful they are accompanied by music, like a sad movie sound track, like the music that plays when a main character dies, you know the kinda tune I mean.

Of course, the texts sadden and frustrate me in equal measure. I guess you know how it feels when a friend doesn't respond to a message. I can't even imagine Kade's pain at my lack of response.

But the one text that really bothers me is this one 'I'm drunk.' Tan doesn't drink; drunk is so out of character for him. It's torture not knowing what's going on with him, what he may be going through – without me by his side.

......

The texts fade and the music changes tempo, becomes plinky-plonky, perky piano keys. This up-tempo soundtrack accompanies a picture of me, when I was Thomas, projected onto the door.

It's not a static image, butt footage of me, when I was about fourteen. I want to look away, but I stare – transfixed, looking at my former self. Stinging tears prick my eyes and run down my cheeks in warm rivulets.

Why are they doing this?

The camera zooms into my former, male face and I see the fine downy hair that signaled the beginning of my male puberty – how I hated that.

The word 'THEN' in capital letters flows over my face and as Thomas turns around the word settles on the back of his head. Slowly the word 'THEN' fades and is replaced with the word 'NOW.'

As Thomas turns around, it's a film of me, as I am and should be, Tanya.

I sit bolt upright as I recognize the footage. It's Kade and I, laughing, joking and loving on London's South Bank, by the River Thames. Carefree and enjoying a welcome respite from the madness.

I remember the day and the time, oh so clearly and with a sadly aching heart.

But now, with this retrospect, I'm pissed – we were being observed and filmed the whole time. I shake when I think of all the private, intimate footage they may have of Kade and I, and I shiver when I think what they may do with it.

As I watch the film, I become aware that Kade's footage is beginning to fade. The music becomes even more up beat and poppy as he is completely digitally erased and I'm suddenly alone on London's Southbank.

The words 'YOUR FUTURE' float across the filmed footage of me walking without Kade, looking like I'm laughing and talking to myself.

The music increases in volume and tempo as the filmed footage of me slows. When I turn in profile, the film of me is halted. I lean in and watch with mounting horror as I see my stomach begin to grow in size.

The music rises to a crashing, orchestral crescendo, as in the film; I look a full nine months pregnant.

My digital image strokes my pregnant stomach affectionately as people pass by and smile at my baby bump.

The music then turns into a childlike nursery rhyme to accompany the words 'YOUR NEAR FUTURE' as they dance around the image of me, in a mix of baby blue and pink fonts.

Standing up, I shout, "No way – I'm not pregnant – I can't ever be pregnant – never!"

Instantaneously I'm answered by typographical words that animate into the film of my pregnant self: 'TRUE, YOU'RE NOT PREGNANT. BUT, NEVER SAY NEVER, TANYA. YOU'RE HERE TO PROVE OR DISPROVE A MEDICAL THEORY. OUR CLINICAL TRIAL WILL RESUME, WITH YOU AS THE SUBJECT.

......

I sit back and think – they're presenting the future they have proposed for me in this cheerful presentation, like the way a creative company would present their ideas to clients.

And I get it all now – Darby & Associates are part of Lucinda and co's wider team. Of course they are, on my first day, I saw the creative department rehearsing presentations like this to sell their advertising ideas to companies that have brands to promote and sell.

How else could Jane have got my letter from the jacket pocket of The Surgeon's corpse? She was obviously a follower who retrieved it then sacrificed herself. They used the letter to make me go willingly with those police officers. It was all a set-up, which I walked into it with my eyes wide open.

I jump at the sudden sound of my own chuckle – I guess I forgot to pay my brain bill on my first day at work.

Then my reality bites.

But questions stop me from descending into blackness – like, how did Darby & Associates slip through Tony's radar? Is Kade's company also suspect?  Are Kade and the others safe in the Hospital?

I know the answer to my final question and it chills and frustrates me in equal measure. Of course they're not safe at the Hospital, clearly it's still infiltrated by Surgeon/Lucinda followers posing as staff.

But what good is my insight to Kade and the others while I'm banged up in here; wondering how the hell they're gonna impregnate me.

Another insight distracts me from what is going to happen to me: The Imps!

It's clear that Darby & Associates will be creating the advertising campaign to promote The Imps to children. And given what I've just seen them create in my cell for me, I know they'll do a great job – every freaking kid in London will be screaming for one.

SHUDDERS!

I ache to share these revelations with Kade.

But I'm comforted by the fact that as long as Kade and the others know I'm alive, they'll  keep looking for me. I know that for sure.

......

Suddenly I feel exhausted and my eyes grow heavy. The light dims in my cell and I welcome the sudden shade.

The dim light however highlights the glare streaming in from the dots, like lines of light crisscrossing across the small space.

When they too begin to fade and my cell grows darker, I lie down on the narrow bed and hope sleep will take me away from reality for a few hours.

BUT  – a sudden shuffle jolts me before my head hits the thin mattress.

Jumping up, I look down at the door flap – the hand is back.

Crouching down I focus on the tightly clenched hand and have the sudden impulse to stroke it affectionately, like it's a pet.  

As I gently stroke the top of the clenched hand, it slowly opens, depositing a small paper package on the floor.

It's gone before I've even picked up the package.

Sitting on my bed, I carefully unfold it.

It's a key – a large key.

I glance at the door, then back at the paper in my hand. Thankfully there's enough light to enable me to see the words.

A short note reads: I want to help you. Your watchers have taken their eyes off you for a moment. GO now or GROW later.