Mathew rolled on the floor of the isolation room, his eyes back in his head and his mouth slack. Drool oozed from the side of his mouth. In his minds eye, he was rolling through the sky, the clouds like candy floss on his face and arms as he drifted through them. However, in reality he was on a dirty floor, the room windowless room dark and inhospitable. His arms were bound in a white straightjacket. He made small, awed noises from the back of his throat as he flew through the heavens.

A noise came from outside the room, the sound of footsteps. Four of the steps were heavy and disciplined, but along with them tip tapped two small, haphazard noises which signalled heels.
The door of the cell clanged as if someone had hit it with a hammer, then creaked as it slid open slowly. Light invaded the room, a small slit at first which grew wider and finally shone down, harshly, on Mathew as he shifted about on the floor. The light made the shadows in the room darker, and the door the silhouette of a woman could be seen. In Mathew's intoxicated day-dream, she was represented by the approaching darkness of night, and his face grew distressed and vulnerable. He didn't want the day to end. He wanted to fly, warmed by the sun. He wanted that forever.

"Revive him." A cold, frigid voice commanded. It was a creaky, pitched voice, like the sound a cartoon witch usually makes, or a crone. The voice was gnarled and bony, like a disciplined and controlled shriek. Elucidate
Two guards marched into the room, one holding Mathew tightly and the other turning him over onto his side, pulling down the drab grey trousers as the other hand held a needle up to the light. He tapped it firstly, then released a little of the fluid within before turning it on Mathew and jabbing it in.
That done, the woman walked into the room slowly and methodically. "You can leave." She said cruelly, her face and form still hidden in the darkness. Only the voice, that awful and sinister voice could be heard. "Be vigilant without the door." She added.

The guards obeyed without question, standing up and stepping from the room with a minimum of fuss. The space, once again, was plunged into darkness.

Mathew's image of the afternoon sky was dissolving, and slowly it was being replaced, replaced with darkness and sheer nothing… nihility. He was blacking out. No - no, he was coming to.

“Wake up, Matty.” She said coolly, coaxing. He rolled his head, searching for light, for something to see. What was this? Where was he?
The name caught his attention, ‘Matty’. Matty… he hadn’t heard that name in a long, long time.

“Where am I?” He asked groggily, searching for the source of the voice. He couldn’t see anything in the darkness. Was this a dream?
Something shifted in the darkness and the voice spoke again, the awful high voice.

“You‘re in your room, Matty. Where else would you be?” Mocking, but professional. He didn’t know that voice.
He frowned. “In my room? Wh- how do you mean? What are you talking about?” He asked, trying to sit up. He found his arms were bound, and he panicked, but he couldn’t muster the energy to move. He felt cold metal around his neck, and the memories rushed back - the camp, America. Mutants.

“I‘m not in my room.” He said with a definite air, not that easily fooled, “where am I? Who are you?”

The voice tutted, then spoke slowly. “Matty, why do you insist on being this way. This is the first time you‘ve been lucid in months - will you not let me check your progress? Can we not chitchat, like we used to?”
He struggled up, by squirming his body until his head hit the wall and then wiggling in that direction until he could use it to prop his back up.

“What are you talking about? Why is it dark in here?” This was a trick, this was some cruel joke. The camps were sadistic. He looked around, scared. He couldn’t see a thing, not even a meter ahead of him.

“It’s always dark in here. You insist on that… don’t you remember?”

“No I don‘t. Who are you.” He said icily, trying to get over the horrible rising feeling in his gut. He felt like his entire stomach was churning and twisting inside… he was going to be sick. “Leave me alone,” he said bitterly, starting at any spot of the darkness, “Let me back into the camps. Now.”

There was a callous laugh, like a dry cackle, and the voice drifted back to him. “The camps. I‘ve heard of these - Matty, why do you insist on these fantasies? Camps, mutants… when are you going to come back to reality?”

The words hit him like a fist, and he squinted and shook his head. “What are you talking about? I’m not going to ask you again, why am I here?” He said in his most threatening voice. Memories were floating back to him, at their own pace… he caught a fleeting image of the dead guards and he shut his eyes tight, in a bid to dispel them. Oh God, please… that wasn’t him. He hadn’t done that.
The voice took on a new tone, this time more compassionate and understanding. Still strained and wiry, but emphatic. “Matty-”

“Don’t keep calling me that!”

“… Mathew,” she corrected herself instantly, “You‘ve been delusional. You‘re here, in Gradingwell Mental. These fantasies, these dreams… they weren’t real. You’re home, Mathew. Home.”

He drew back his upper lip and tried to will himself free of the jacket. Adrenaline rushed through him - who was this woman?

“Gradingwell was never my home!” He spat, wondering what else she knew. She simply fell silent for a time.

“It must be difficult for you, to be in this little room. How long has it been, Matty? How long since you‘ve seen the light of day?”

He clenched his jaw shut, his nostrils flaring. “Don’t call me that. I don‘t know you. I’m in the Registration Camps… I was caught in New York. I left Gradingwell months ago!” He proclaimed, trying to make her quit whatever game she was playing. Whatever it was, he knew. He remembered. The camps, Pitbull. Deathstar. Sara… he remembered. “Why are you doing this? What are you talking about?” He demanded. Briefly he wondered about Sara. What had happened to her? Was she getting the same treatment?
“I know what you‘re doing,” he said bitterly, “You’re punishing me. I killed those guards, and you‘re punishing me for it. I know. I know.” He repeated, thinking to reassure himself. His breathing was getting laboured, and he was repeated to himself over and over…

No… I escaped.. I can‘t be still here! I can‘t be… I’m in America.. I‘m in America…

He looked around again. This room… this darkened room. They’d put him in a room like this, back in England. Oh God… no way. He couldn’t think it. He’d escaped this place.

“No, Matty,” she proceeded, not caring for his outburst, “You‘re in England. You‘re in Gradingwell Mental… ”

“I escaped!” He hissed.

“How can you escape, with the tracking collar? Think logically. We‘d have found you hours after. I am correct in thinking, yes, that these dreams of another reality have taken place o-”

“There were never any collars at Gradingwell! You‘re messing with my head!”

“There have always been tracking collars here, Matty. Always.”

He fell silent and glared at where he thought she might be, at where the voice seemed to be coming from. He was still so tired, so uneasy - he felt like someone had crushed him under a rock, squeezed his head in a vice. “You weren’t my doctor at Gradingwell…” he accused pitifully.

She paused for a second, and there was silence. In the darkness, with no noise but his own heavy breathing, he felt as if he didn’t even exist. As if he was just a dream.


“No… I‘m sorry, Matty. I know this. Your last doctor - well, I‘m afraid your last doctor is unable to continue your treatment. You got hold of some scissors, you-”

“Liar!” he hissed, flinging himself forward but making no more effect than a butterfly does against a tornado. “Liar!”

“you killed him, Matty! You killed him! You have to face the truth. You have to come out of this fantasy. Don‘t you understand what you‘ve done? You have to snap out of this! I‘m trying to help you.” She said loudly, raising her voice to overtake his insults.

When she spoke again, her voice grew quiet and composed, as it was before.

“I‘m trying to help you. I‘ve been appointed your new doctor. My name… is doctor Kelsey.” She said simply, kindly, “I have your files, and I‘ve read them thoroughly. I want to get to know you, Matty. Mathew, if you prefer. Then I can help you.”

He laughed, a strong and mirthless sound. His own laugh was similar to her own, only where hers was feminine and occult his was masculine and similar to the laugh people attribute with villains and mad scientists. “I don’t know why, I don‘t want to know. But you‘re playing with me. Leave me alone.”

She sighed before speaking. “You‘re still set on believing in this fantasy reality, Mathew, when there’s a the whole wide real world you can have? It‘s at your fingertips, Mathew. You just have to reach out and grab it. There are no such things as mutants, there is no such place as the Registration Camp. It‘s a fantasy.”

“I could tear you mind apart like tissue paper.” He warned.

“Then do it.” She said in a heartbeat.

“What?”

“Do it. Show me these ‘powers’.”

“No… the collar-”

“Is nothing more than a tracking device for those living at Gradingwell Mental. Go on. Show me these powers of yours.”

He fell silent and made a low noise in his throat. He was so confused. He was sure he’d escaped. No, he had escaped. He had. He could remember it!

“I don‘t see any displays of evolved abilities, Mathew. Is it that subtle?” She laughed, “No, it‘s not. I‘ll tell you what it is. Your powers, Mathew - they‘re nothing more than a complex form of MPD. It‘s your mind’s way of explaining what happens to you, when It takes over. You remember It, don’t you?”

He squirmed on the floor and screamed, “Shut up! Shut up!” She couldn’t know about that. She couldn’t know about It! “You don‘t know what you’re talking about!”

“Oh, but I do. I‘ve read your files, Mathew. The files your last doctor kept on you. Can I speak with It? Is that possible?”

His lip quivered as he spoke, his arms going goosepimply. He shivered. “It would kill you where you stand, you stupid fucking bitch!”

“Like it killed your last doctor?”

“There was no last doctor! I didn’t kill him, I escaped! I got free… I did.. I did it, I remember..” He said, biting back tears. “Leave me alone!”

She went silent, and he heard a persistent tapping. He calmed down and listened intently, wondering what she’d saying next, but hoping and praying she wouldn’t keep on doing this to him. He couldn’t stand it.

“Alright,” she said simply, “I‘ll leave you alone. But I‘ll be make, Mathew. I will be back.”

With that she stood up and he heard the sound of her heels tapping away, and a door opened; the room was flooded with light, and he saw the silhouette of a woman, of small stature, and tiny in height - but he could only see her dark shadowed by the harsh light from outside the room, the two men rushed in and injected him, heedless of his struggling.

After a only a minute or two, he’d fallen back into random dreams, dreams of his past and dreams of impossible events. Lazily, he was swimming through the ocean, like a fish, and he waved amiably at several coffee tables as they drifted by with the current.

Dr. Kelsey walked through the halls of the solo detention area, her hands held behind her back gracefully. She was walking abreast two other men, Dr. Cooper and Mr. Ahmed, respectively an evolutionary biologist and one of the politicians supporting both the Registration camps and Dr. Kelsey's research. Dr. Cooper was a tall, wiry man, with a balding head and a beaky proboscis. Mr. Ahmed was short and rotund, much more similar to Deirdre in appearance, with a thick head of black hair and a greasy little moustache.

"How goes Lot 5, Deirdre?" Mr. Ahmed asked, flanked by his own private set of guards to compliment the two afforded to the two doctors.

Dr. Kelsey raised her head and blinked slowly, considering. "He's reluctant, but I think he'll come around. I've only had one session with him."

Dr. Cooper sniffed slightly and dusted an imaginary from his lapels. “The methods are highly unorthodox, I should tell the two of you. I don‘t like it. I don‘t like it at all.”

The two of them stared at the man for the briefest moments, like a small pack of wolves singling out the outsider. There was a long, drawn out silence between the three before Mr. Ahmed finally spoke.

“Will he aid the research?” He asked pointedly at Deirdre.

She raised her eyebrows and considered, slightly pouting during the reply, “Well, he certainly has all the traits we‘re looking for. His file, from England, specifically states a stronger entity he reverts to in times of stress. However, rather than a conscious, developed persona it seems to be his subconscious, his id.”

“id?” Mr. Ahmed asked, turning to the two doctors.

“Freud‘s psychoanalytical theory,” Dr. Cooper began sceptically, “that the mind is split into three stages of being. The id, the ego and the super-ego.” He said the words as if he held no truck with them in the least.

“In layman’s terms?”

Deirdre took the mantle, raising her voice before the other doctor could interrupt. “All psychology is theory, doctor,” she began in rebuke, before turning her head to the politician, “The id,” she said slowly, “is the seat of the mind, namely, pure instinct and impulse. His doctors in England were not aware of his mutant gene, nor the connection.”

“You haven’t established that there even is a connection yet, Deirdre.” Dr. Cooper spat, obviously not comfortable with this endeavour.

“How is it possible that they didn’t know?” Mr. Ahmed asked incredulously, completely ignoring Dr. Cooper‘s accusation, “he’s registered as a level 5, is he not?”

Deirdre nodded. “That he is. There’s no conclusive answer to that, I‘m afraid. He was in a mental hospital - the nature of his powers would have been easily overlooked in such an environment. He also shows great reluctance to actually use the power to any great extent.”

They came upon an ominous door, each taking their place before it. One of the guards obediently came forward and unlocked the heavy, metallic thing. It swung open slowly, with a great sinister creak.

Inside the young man lay on the floor, twisted into a bizarre shape. His eyes were open but vacant, his mouth slack. The heavy iron collar around his neck looked alien and sadistic.

Dr. Cooper made an audible noise of disapproval from the back of his throat.

Deirdre stepped in first, inviting the two men to follow. They crowded into the small room, spreading around the young man like occultists around a sacrifice.

Mr. Ahmed appraised him with greedy eyes before looking back up at Deirdre.

“He‘s younger than I expected.” He said, though his tone suggested it made no difference in his mind whatsoever.

Deirdre nodded. “I’m afraid the nature of mutation is quite crude. It can arise in the most unlikely of places, notably in that of a teenage boy,” She looked up wistfully, her eyes growing distant, “Now if it were a precise form of evolution, that is to say, to have given such power to a mature, stable mind…”

“Pish,” Dr. Cooper spat, “absolute pish. I’ve never heard a more ridiculous theory in my entire life.”

Deirdre turned on him, her face cold. “I have,” she said in warning, “It was called penis envy.” The meaning was clear, and macabre.

Dr. Cooper was about to retort before Mr. Ahmed broke in and asked a question. “Dr. Cooper,” he said, waving a hand in the general direction of the flaccid body, “If you would?”

The man paused for a second, reluctantly letting the argument go, before he began to speak. “It‘s by no means a simple theory, nor is it concrete or without fault,” he said, stressing the last with a narrowing of his eyes, “but it is scientifically sound. The appearance of the X-Gene in ordinary humans is, as a standalone fact, quite an enigma. It seems to serve no perceivable purpose other than to grant otherwise mundane individuals power.”

“Is that not the nature of evolution, doctor?” Mr. Ahmed pressed.

“Not in this case. The examples of advancement are too varied, to random and haphazard. If the mutation were of a more uniform persuasion, I may be inclined to agree. However, because of the diversities in each individual case of mutation I’m more inclined to support Dr. Kelsey’s theory that mutation is only a stepping stone. That could possibly explain the random manifestations of power; each individual is trying to reach the next level, and their bodies are trying to do that in the best way fitted to them.”

Mr. Ahmed looked down again at the boy, “So what you‘re saying is, doctor, that the majority of mutants are failed specimens? They didn‘t make the grade, as it were?” He asked hopefully. In his mind he was thinking of various kinds of campaign which could be used, that fact being a central theme.

“No, not at all,” Dr. Cooper said, “In fact quite the opposite. All mutants are, at the moment, of the same equality in the evolutionary stakes. Even those with MPD did not make the grade, as you describe it.”

Deirdre, anticipating Mr. Ahmed’s question by the slight bunching of his facial muscles, spoke up. “The increasing presence of MPD indicates that, as a result of mutation, the minds of these individuals are adapting accordingly to encompass a heightened awareness of the world.”

Mr. Ahmed still looked confused, so she pressed on. “Put simply, mutation is only nature’s way of causing the disorder in a great many individuals. In the greater scheme of things, the actual mutation is just a means to a greater end.”

“a psychopathic population?”

For once, the two doctors seemed to come together and give each other, ‘the look’.

“No, sir,” Dr. Cooper said in a slightly condescending way, “Not psychopathic. That wouldn’t apply in any case, even if the end result was discordant. The end product, we believe,” he said, catching Deirdre’s eye again, “is evolution of the mind itself. By splitting the mind in this early stage, the process can refine itself.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning,” Deirdre began esoterically, “MPD is just the beginning.”

Mr. Ahmed took a deep breath and looked down at the body one more time, then he turned around and made his way out of the room.

“Fine, but Deirdre,” he said, halfway out, before he stopped to turn and look at her meaningfully, “This is Lot 5. 1, 2, 3 and 4 did not end well. Make sure to be a little… gentler with this one.”

Deirdre’s eyes glazed over for a moment, the corner of her mouth curling into a smirk.

“Many white mice have died in the name of science, Mr. Ahmed.” She said nonchalantly.

She caught his gaze and lowered her head a little.

“Yes sir.”