The human body is a miracle and there are a vast number of theories to sign up to concerning its origin and purpose.

It could be a vast city populated by millions of tiny organisms. The extremities are the slums, operated by low paid menials, with equally low aspirations. The heart is where the 'real workers,' or so they think of themselves, live. They believe, with not unfounded resolution, the city would collapse without them. This puts them above all others, and their elitist attitude demonstrates this. Then there's the brain. In the brain, those who believe they're exiles reside. They feel they're meant to be apart from the remaining population, and are indeed. They're the different ones. The ones you'd cross to the other side of the artery to avoid. The misunderstood and misjudged ones. They are dreamers. Imaginers. Worriers. They allow their wonder to wander, and no one, including them, realise their true worth.

The human body might be placed here by the last, but not only, extra-terrestrial race to visit this fair planet. In our DNA, we could harbour the seed required to regerminate their ancient, fading civilisation. It wouldn't burst forth, Ridley Scott like, leaving us empty husks to be fed upon by the new born alien creature. Unless it did... It would remain dormant within us, a seed bearing the history of those who were old when the universe was still young. We could be all that was left of the greatest intelligence ever to exist, and be completely unaware.

It could be created, from sand and clay, by an omnipotent deity wishing to simply fill the emptiness of existence with life.

Or, it could be the accidental and entirely unguided mixing of primordial elements. We could be a mere stepping stone, early on the rocky path to fulfilling our ultimate potential. We might destroy ourselves long before nearing that promise, or we might overcome our inadequacies and be fulfilled.

The human body, whatever reason it exists, is a miracle. It is a self-repairing, to a certain extent, machine capable of wondrous acts on its own, without the intervention of us, the drivers.

How long, therefore, would a broken nose and crushed larynx take to heal? Could they heal without the resultant shock and lack of air depriving the body of one of the precious items required for it to continue being?

Ryan couldn't know, but the fact they were healed implied the incident had happened some time ago.

How long, therefore, had he been unconscious, and had that state been artificially maintained by Bradley and her team in order to keep him contained? Controlled?

It was one little, provoked, bite. They couldn't hold that against him, could they? Yes, they could, and probably would. If he had attacked her like that, he imagined others would have done the same, similar or worse, previously.

They were keeping people without consent. Given the chance, who wouldn't retaliate and try to escape? But, where would you go? You couldn't see and had no concept of the size or layout of the room.

Ryan was suddenly struck by how normal the absence of light had become. At first, it felt as if the world had ceased to exist. It had been removed and all that now was, was his cage. Now, it was normality. The time with Dr Bradley was the anomaly. The light in that room, which he assumed should have been blinding in contrast, but wasn't, was out of place. It invaded his eyes, seeping into his brain to make it ache, a lingering effect that he only now recognised was there at all.

The darkness, once signifying, no, emphasising the loss of his life and memory, was now a comfort. It hid the evils without, and he could imagine it to be a thick forest keeping them away. How did the others feel about it? Had it become a succour to them? Did they love or loathe it? Did they even care?

He wished he could ask them. They were in there with him, so were also protected by the forest of nothing, whether caring or not. The interlopers, Bradley and her lackeys, could invade their space, but they'd always have it back afterwards. It couldn't be taken away permanently, and it would forever be there waiting.

He wished he could tell them. It would, perhaps, soothe their torment. Once calmed, they could hatch a plan.

Hatch a plan... Ryan always imagined an actual egg. It was sometimes chocolate, depending on the time of year, and occasionally Faberge, depending on how rich he wanted to feel. It would tremble slightly, and a crack would appear in the top. This would spread, with something inside trying to break out. When the egg finally split apart completely, a newborn plan would be sitting there, yawning and stretching its arms, while looking around for the parent who'd inspired the germination.

He chuckled for two reasons. One was the image itself. The second was the fact he knew he'd had such thoughts, but didn't know his own birthday. His eye colour. If he had a mole on his arse in the shape of a sparrow.

"That's dangerous, you know."

The voice drifted towards him, not increasing in volume, but in presence.

The girl.

He had to remain silent. It was necessary to avoid the coming of Them.

Still.

Fuck it.

"Humour?" he asked.

"No, speaking, silly."

"I knew that. It's tough, though. I'm not certain I care anymore. If I speak and they come and get me, I'll be on a bed with Bradley, well, not with her, and she'll give me some grief. Then I'll be back here, as usual."

"Will you?"

"Of course. That's all that's happened so far. And I can handle her."

"You seem so sure of yourself."

"I am," Ryan said confidently. "I've given up being afraid."

"I think that's a bad thing."

"Why?"

"Because, you don't know. You're only guessing. You don't know the truth."

"What truth? I've been here for however long, and I'm still here. As is everyone else. Including you."

"What about the others who have been taken?"

"What about them? They'll be back, just like me. Bradley has us thinking they torture us, or worse, and they don't. They just wind us up and watch us go."

"You're wrong," said the girl, a sad note hanging from her words.

"I'm not wrong. I've seen it. Fear is their weapon, and I'm not going to be afraid anymore."

"Not everyone comes back, you know."

"I don't know, and I don't believe it. It's all a ruse. If they take someone and don't bring them back, they're probably taking them to a different dark room. That'll be why they keep the lights off, so we don't know we're not back where we were!"

The girl laughed and, in the emptiness, her disembodied voice sounded distinctly ghostly. Ryan shuddered, though managed to contain it to a tremor.

"How come I'm talking to you, and they're not coming in to stop me? No one is telling me to shut up, either."

"Odd, isn't it?"

"Yeah... so...?"

"So, how are we able to talk to each other without either of us getting dragged out?"

"Strange, don't you think?"

"Yes, I said that, so why don't..."

"That confuses me."

"Huh? What does?"

"'Don't you think?' The phrase. It's confusing, don't you think?"

"What are you talking about? Can't you..."

"I mean, yes, I don't think. No, I don't think! There's no answer!"

Ryan sighed. She was young. Her attention span could be limited, so he'd have to allow her the chance to jump between subjects and refuse to answer questions. Kids did that, didn't they?

"OK. You win. No, if you put it like that, there's no answer."

"See?"

The response was excited, and he expected her to clap her hands with joy. She didn't. Maybe that was a sound too far.

"Sure," said Ryan flatly. He wasn't in an excitable mood, and the simple pleasure of a vocabularic conundrum was lost on him.

"Don't be so poopy," the girl said. "It was just a bit of fun. You need to smile."

"I'm not being... poopy. And I don't want to smile, thanks."

But he couldn't help it. Poopy was definitely his mood, and it shouldn't be. It would solve nothing, achieve less and make him miserable in the process. He didn't want to be miserable. Yes, he was far from happy. No, that didn't mean he should be poopy.

"OK," he said. "Sorry. Look, can you tell me your name?"

"It's Clara."

"That's a nice name. How are you doing, like, what you're doing?"

"What am I doing?"

"Speaking to me. Able to roam free?"

"I'm not free. None of us are. None of us will ever be again."

Well, thought Ryan. That took a turn!

"I will be. I'm going to get out of here."

"You don't like to admit you're wrong, but you are. You'll die in here. Everyone does."

No! He refused to believe that! It was all just mind games with a healthy dose of cruelty thrown in. They had their agenda, and there would be a reason for it, albeit warped. They wouldn't just snatch people off the street to kill them.

What would be the point?

So...

"Why do you say that? How do you know?"

Clara didn't answer.

She screamed.

The sudden noise, it couldn't be just one young girl, filled the room with a devastating shriek. Ryan pressed his hands to more than just his ears. The sound was ramming in through every orifice. He had his palms pushed against the sides of his head, trying to squeeze the agony back out, but the incessant flood was too much.

And then it stopped.

Ryan's hands dropped to the floor, supporting his weight. He was panting, and any strength stored in his body had fled. He felt something drip onto the back of his hand and raised his hand to his mouth. There was only one way to tell what it might be when he couldn't see, so he licked the substance with the tip of his tongue.

A metallic tang.

Blood.

He rubbed his fingers across his nostrils, but they were dry. He felt a trickle of something down his check and moved his touch there, following the trail up.

The blood was coming from his eyes.

What the fuck?

He opened his mouth to shout at the girl. To ask her what the actual fuck?

It was his turn to scream. Her face, milky white, with a haze around it as if it was just out of focus, flashed at the bars of his cage.

Her voice was bright and carried over his cry, even though its volume was much less.

"Don't you know?" she laughed. "I don't know!"

The laugh continued as her face drew away,moving back into the darkness. Then the cackle and her visage disappeared.