Fuck!

Ryan released the doctor and jumped up, staggering away from her.

He couldn't do it. The Ryan before all of this might have been a killer. That could even be why he was here in the first place. This Ryan, however, wasn't. Bradley was a monster, but that didn't make him one. He didn't subscribe to the maxim of an eye for an eye, a murder for a cold-blooded murder, and if he had continued with his attack, she would have turned him into her.

Fuck!

Was he being weak by releasing her? Possibly. He hoped he would live to regret his decision.

Dr Bradley's head was moving from side to side, as if she was searching for something, but her eyes were fluttering. The hand that had clawed at him was still on her chest, while the other was patting at the floor in an uneven beat. She was making gasping sounds in sharp breaths that rasped over her damaged throat.

Her movements and sounds were diminishing in strength. He crept closer and knelt beside her.

She jumped, her body jolting suddenly. Her head and hand didn't stop, though, and continued their shaking and tapping.

"Bradley?" Ryan said tentatively.

He reached out to touch her shoulder, but she didn't respond to the contact.

"Dr Bradley? Can you hear me?"

She didn't acknowledge him and, with the glassy stare from her eyes, he wasn't certain she could see him.

Or knew he was there.

What had he done?

Using both hands, he shook her, then gently tapped her face, unconsciously copying her own rhythm. Her rocking head stilled, and her breaths grew fainter, to the point he could barely hear her. Then her lips moved as she said something too quiet for him to hear.

Relieved that she had the strength to speak, however weakly, Ryan cheered inwardly. He hadn't killed her! But she was clearly waning. Perhaps he had.

She spoke again. He leaned in.

"What did you say?"

In a voice that was struggling to push through her damaged tissue, she whispered:

"I'm sorry."

Ryan frowned and lifted back up a little. There was no time to question what she meant.

Bradley's hand shot up and grabbed his throat. Rather than her fingers spreading to squeeze his neck, they formed a claw to grip around his trachea, pushing into the flesh surrounding it. It was his turn to try to prize her off, but she was stronger than he expected. Stronger than she should have been. Instead of wrenching at her wrist, he had to take hold of her fingers and thumb and try to pull them apart. As he was doing so, he saw her other hand scrabble at her pocket and pull something out.

He only just released her thumb to lash out wildly, trying to knock the knife from her grasp. It sliced into the side of his palm and he shrieked, twisting it away. Instinctively, though blood was gushing from the wound, he continued his attempt to release his gullet, watching for the returning blade.

A deafening BOOM next to his head brought another shriek and knocked him sideways as if it had been a physical push. His ears were ringing, and he pressed against them with his hands. It took a second for him to realise the doctor no longer held onto him and he looked at her.

And wished he hadn't.

Dr Fiona Bradley was staring straight upwards. Her eyes were wide. Her mouth was drawn back in a silent, frozen snarl.

In the centre of her forehead was a dark hole. At the back of her head was a spreading pool of blood.

"Clean up on aisle six!"

The comment was followed by a little light laughter, as if a joke had been made in polite company. Desperately wanting to, but struggling with the task, Ryan tore his hand away from the doctor.

His cry was meek. That of a kitten that has ventured away from home for the first time and now has no idea of the way back.

"Hello, Ryan," said Dr Fiona Bradley.

Ryan moved back, slowly. He was looking from one Bradley to the other, living to dead to living. The wall behind him was there too quickly. It halted his retreat too soon.

Bradley smiled, a mix of humour and kindness.

"Come on, now. Don't be like that," she said. "I've just saved your life!"

"H... H..."

"How?"

Ryan nodded shakily.

"You surprise me, you know. I'd expect someone of your capabilities and experiences to have figured it out by now."

"W..."

"What?"

A nod. Yes.

"Come, sit," she said, taking the place the dead version of her and occupied a few moments previously.

An emphatic shake of the head. Fuck, no!

"Ryan, I meant what I said. I just want to talk. I'm sorry things keep getting out of hand. Sit down and let's chat."

Ryan moved to the sofa, giving the... what, new doctor? Ghost? Duplicate? Whatever, he gave her a wide berth and cautiously sat down. His adrenaline hadn't yet calmed down, and he was thankful for it. He would remain alert. Poised.

"You can relax, you know."

"No. I'm fine."

"I can do this all day," she said. "I'd prefer not to, though. It fucking hurts."

"What does?"

"Getting shot in the head. It's a killer!"

She threw her head back and cackled, a sound that seemed to be out of place for someone whose normal voice was smooth, though the words spoken weren't always. Ryan shook his head. How could she possibly be there talking to him, and laughing hysterically, if she was also dead on the floor? Was he dreaming again? Should he expect Clara to make an appearance, telling him it wasn't safe?

Not safe? No, really?

When the doctor's laughter had subsided, she slumped back against the sofa, taking deep breaths to regain control of herself.

"Sorry," she said, stifling the giggling aftershocks. "I couldn't help it. Funny, wasn't it?"

"No, not really! Insane is more like it."

"Well, one man's insanity is another man's treasure, you know?"

Ryan was sure the saying didn't go like that, but shrugged. She would know, too, and was just paraphrasing. It wasn't the time. She had just shot herself! Insane described it all exactly!

"No," she said, finally calm again. "You're right. It must all seem crazy to you. I understand. You'd like an explanation, I assume?"

"Yes, of course. An explanation. Answers. My life back. I don't expect them, though."

"And why is that?"

"Because You're keeping all of us here against our wills. You've wiped all our memories..."

"How do you know?"

"How do I know what?"

"All of you. How do you know everyone has been wiped?"

Ryan sat up, hopeful.

"You mean some of us haven't had our identities erased?"

"No, I mean you have. I was just wondering where you got your information from. It's certainly not from asking everyone, because only a stupid few would answer."

"It's a guess. We all look to be in the same fucked up situation, so why wouldn't you do the same barbaric, twisted thing to everyone?"

Bradley leaned forward. She looked sad.

"I can assure you, there is nothing barbaric or twisted about any of this. We're not animals, you know!"

"No, I know nothing of the sort. I can only go by the treatment you give out. Tasers and bullets and silence and darkness and cages! And murder!" he said, pointing frantically at the body on the floor. "You might not be animals, but you treat us like we are!"

"I can see why you think that, but we're doing the best we can."

Bradley seemed sincere. Her expression and the way she used her hands to emphasise her words gave the impression she believed what she was saying. Believed in it. Ryan wasn't fooled, however.

"That's the best you can do? Keep us locked up with no light? Stealing who we are? And why? Why would you do that? What's so fucking important?"

"It's..." she faltered, and so did his attitude. The doctor was so convincing, it was difficult to dismiss her words. "It's part of the treatment. That's all I can tell you. We have to."

Treatment?

"Is there something wrong with me? Am I ill?"

"Ryan, we all are. Whether we know it or not, there's diseases laying dormant in every living person, just waiting to awaken and drag us to a slow, painful death."

"You mean, like the fact we're all meant to have cancer in us? That's just, like, Nature's cull, isn't it?"

"Well, sort of. Maybe. Nature is a tough mistress. That's a myth, though, about the cancer. We all have the potential for cells to form with damaged DNA, which have the potential to become cancerous. It's not the same thing."

"OK? So?"

"So, we're trying to remove that risk. Or the bad cold you get every single year. Or the heart attack that's looming in your chest. Or Hepatitis and Tuberculosis or Malaria."

"Oh my," said Ryan automatically.

"What?"

"Doesn't matter. I don't know why I said that."

Something vibrated in Bradley's pocket and she pulled out a phone. She kept the screen facing towards her, but Ryan had the chance to see the name of the caller.

Dad.

The man in the photos?

"Hello?" Bradley's voice was stern, and she didn't look happy at being interrupted.

Ryan couldn't hear the voice on the other end of the call, so was unable to discern the full conversation. There's were only a few responses from the doctor, and none gave anything away.

"Yes, I thought so."

"I know. It is."

"Give me the chance to finish up first, please."

"I said 'yes.' Trust me."

"Yes, sir."

"Yes, sir."

"Thank you."

The phone was put away and Bradley didn't say anything at first. She stared at her hands, which were resting on her knees. Composing herself?

"Are you OK?" Ryan asked.

"Yes. Yes, I'm fine."

"Who was that? You look upset."

"No," she said, shaking her head a little too emphatically. "It's all good. That was my boss."

Boss? Her father was her superior? So, this was a family business?

"OK? Have you been told off?"

Bradley laughed, but it was forced.

"No, not at all. It's just... You're an interesting case. The first we've found, and we've been searching for a long time."

"I am? Does that mean I get a prize? I get to go home?"

"No, that's not possible, I'm afraid."

"Well, what then?"

"It means you won't die."