Condescension was rarely an attractive attribute.

There were those who wielded it like a sword, cutting down any before them with wide slashes of disdain. Or it's a shield, held up to protect the user from the damaging opinions of others, often by damaging those opinions in the process. Ryan wondered which Bradley brandished. Was Bradley arrogant, sure of her hubristic place in the world, or only a pretender to her father's throne, and so feeling she had to look down on others to force them to believe she was genuinely above them?

He was unsure. She held power, but how much of that was self-gained and how much was nepotistic? Either way, her insistence he was too stupid to grasp the intricacies of cycling was an insult. She knew nothing about him. His records could show details of his previous life, from his address to his favourite tipple to his inside leg measurement. That wasn't him. What if there was a page all about his education history? He did OK at school. Not anything massively impressive, except in English (he loved the subject), but it wasn't bad. Better than average. What did that mean? He was interested in the sciences and, though he wasn't and never could be a scientist, he followed most of what he read.

Words on a screen were not a complete, nor accurate, interpretation of the plentiful parts of a person.

So, alliterate the shit out of that, Dr Fiona Bradley.

"Fine," he said with a shrug. "It's all science and I'm a Muggle. So, what do I do?"

"You know how to whistle, don't you?"

"Huh?"

"Just blow!"

"What...?"

"It's on the fucking computer. Just look at the computer!"

It was Ryan's turn to smirk. He knew what she meant, but the faux ignorance was his way of playing into her sense of superiority.

"Right," he said, enjoying her look of distaste.

He pressed Enter.

There was the menu. The options. The truth, or perhaps their version of it. One word seemed to be in a larger, emboldened font now. It wasn't, but it drew his attention, which in turn, emphasised it.

PARTICIPANTS

Just select that and he'd know everything. He'd also fall in line with whatever she was doing, otherwise it wouldn't be so important to her. And that was what really gave him pause. She was pushing him. She couldn't understand his reticence, and clearly needed him to see his records. Bradley wanted him to know the truth, and that... that was unnerving. Up to that point, it was his search. Now, he wasn't so sure. Had they been guiding him all this time? Had his escape been engineered?

It must have been. The repetitions proved they were fully aware he'd end up at this point. He'd been so naïve! Perhaps, he should make them cycle him a final time, and just remain quietly in his cell, in all ways, in the dark. That'd mess with them. He'd be a happy little lab rat, doing nothing to change his situation. And, they'd hate it.

PARTICIPANTS

The word was waiting for him to select it. It was a patient series of letters with nothing else to do than hope for human interaction. It didn't cry out to Ryan or pester like Bradley. It simply lingered on the screen. He mentally thanked the screen. At least someone/thing was on his side.

Fine.

It was time. Not because Bradley said, but because he knew there was no point in dragging it out. He wanted to know, so had to stop procrastinating. It would appease the doctor, and perhaps give him the information he needed to get out and rebuild his life. He wouldn't give them the chance to cycle him, and nor would he piss them off more than he already had. He'd just...

Ryan pressed Enter on the keyboard.

A loading bar slid across the screen faster than he'd like. It wasn't giving him the opportunity to steel himself. He was going to receive an info dump and wasn't prepared.

No. He didn't want it. Truth didn't matter. Reality was as illusory as death in these parts. Besides, there was nothing to say what he'd see would be genuine. They could tell him anything.

Too late.

The bar disappeared and a document appeared. He hadn't searched for one, so how did it know what to open? In the top left corner was a man's photograph, passport style. It could have been anyone, with the file being there by default, but he knew it wasn't. It was his picture. Though there had been no mirrors during his incarceration, and his memory had been stolen, only recently beginning to return, the photo was of him.

And the name beneath it. As ordinary as the image.

Reece Adamson.

Reece.

Reece...

He rolled it around his mental tongue, tasting the sound in his mind. Reece.

No. Whether that was truly the name his parents had given him when he was born or not, it felt wrong to him. Perhaps it was because he'd become accustomed to the one Bradley had given him. Or the file was a lie, another of the doctor's games. He didn't think so, though. Why go to all this trouble, just to feed him more nonsense? What would be the point? So, Reece probably was his real name and, though he hated to side with Bradley, he'd still prefer to be called Ryan.

Moving on.

Next of Kin: Brioni.

Offspring: Clara.

Yes! His wife and daughter! He knew it! They were... they weren't merely in his head. The spirit girl who'd been haunting him was based on reality!

He choked back a sob. He wouldn't let any of them see this was affecting him. He was simply reading facts about himself. Words on a screen had no emotion, so he'd show none. Again, moving on, even if it took effort to take his eyes away from his family's names.

Familial status: Deceased.

W...

What?

Deceased? Bun? Clara? Dead? No., it wasn't true! He'd know if they were. No amount of meddling in his brain was enough to erase something so meaningful. He'd remember. He just would!

Read the fuck on. Just keep going.

fuckfuckfuckfuckFUCK

Retrieval Process:

· Vehicular collision, resulting in death of wife (B) and child (C). (C) survived temporarily. Died later of injuries. (B) dead at scene. Decapitation and crushed ribcage.

· Participant (R) injured. Non fatal. Returning from appointment at DPoW Hospital. NHS records interrogation DrB0913ra refers. Oesophageal cancer. Sequenced on scene for compatibility. 97.63%. Retrieval within optimum timeframe.

· PMortem/liability findings:

o (R) at fault.

o (R) Blood alcohol level 240mcg/b.

o (R) Narcotic level 0.

o (B) BA & N levels 0.

o (C) BA & N levels 0.

o Conclusion, based on SOC + above, death by dangerous driving, under influence of alcohol.

· SOC cleaned. Audit DrB0913soca refers.

· Microsense/physical examination findinsg:

o (B) Decapitation rendered MS examination N/A.

o (C) and (R) MS reading corroborate.

o Argument. (R) extra-marital affair. Denial, but (B) proof.

o Deleted messages and photographs recovered.

o Affair confirmed.

· Additional

o (B) 15 (one five) weeks pregnant.

o Foetus unrecoverable.

Ryan stopped reading. There was more, but he'd seen enough. He tried to read the report again, but could only stare at the screen, his eyes skating over the blocks of text. They were refusing to accept the words had any meaning.

They couldn't. It was all lies. ALL LIES. Lies.

It wasn't true. None of it. No. NO.

no.

PROCESS IT! he yelled at the internal whirlwind.

NO! it screamed back.

And, it was right. How could he? Why should he? It was bollocks. All of it. Ryan refused to accept a single word, even his supposed real name. It was Bradley. Senior or junior didn't matter. Probably both, in fact. They wanted him acquiescent. Malleable. Spin him a web of false memories so he'd succumb to whatever they were trying to do.

Well, he refused. Brioni and Clara were both well and alive. They'd have called the police, who'd be searching for him right at that moment. The Bradleys would have ensured that tracking him was not easy, and, knowing his local police, his location would have remained undiscovered. They'd close the case. He'd be a runaway. A midnight absconder.

But there'd be no reason for him to! He fucking knew his marriage was a happy one. After ten years together, he and his wife remained deeply in love, and they made sure Clara knew how much they cherished her.

He would never contemplate an affair. No one could stand up against his beautiful Bun or be anything near a match. As for being drunk, there was no chance. If he was driving, he'd have one pint. Two if he was eating. No more. And... and... another baby? No. He'd had the snip. He couldn't have any more children. That would mean Brioni was the one having the affair, and that was unthinkable. Impossible. They were an unbreakable family.

And cancer? Regardless of whether Bradley stole his memories, the physical effects of such a disease would persist. Tumours didn't just disappear. And, if he'd been cured, which the report implied hadn't happened, there would still be signs. Ryan knew little about cancer. There's been no one in his family who'd succumbed, and he hadn't been particularly exposed to it outside of that. Surely, though, he'd know!

So...

Fuck you, Dr Fiona Bradley. And your little dad, too.

What was he going to do? Bradley had been insistent on him seeing the information – and he'd been desperate to see for himself. There was no way she'd not confirm it to be the truth, no matter his surety of the opposite. This was the story they wanted him to know. He wondered why, but it was obvious, really. It was just fodder for the illusion they were creating. They were hiding the real him, so he'd feel obliged to be thankful to them.

For what? For repeatedly murdering him? For rescuing him from a terrible accident that didn't happen? Not a chance.

He turned, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast.

"Thank you," he said.

"You don't have to thank me. Or us. You needed to see this when the time was right. You need to know the truth so you can move on to the next step."

"Which is?"

"To join us, Reece."

There it was again. Reece.

"Ryan. My name is Ryan."

"Of course," nodded Bradley. "Whichever you prefer."

So, this was a recruitment drive. They really neededto work on their technique. He was sure McDonald's didn't resort to murder toincrease their headcount. Maybe they had a good pension scheme to compensate.