The scientist opened his eyes.

Gradually, the neural pathways of his eyes were given priority for transfer to his cognitive centers. He took the room in. He was sitting cross-legged on the top of a two-storied bunk bed, in a meditative position. The light was probably dim, but it did not impede his vision.

Slowly, his other senses awoke. The smell of mildew, sweat, piss and air that was breathed in and out so many times it was probably all carbon dioxide. The itching sensation of low-quality, tough fabric against his skin. The sounds of clattering, unintelligible screaming, footsteps. The chest of Carrie, exploding inward from the impact of a 9 mm round.

Chris inhaled sharply. That last umage was not a product of his senses, but more of memory. No - extrapolation of sensory memory. He suddenly felt the need to examine his body, but other than being a little dehydrated he was completely healthy. Slowly, the trip in the dark van came back to him, the cloth bag on his face, walking into rooms, riding elevators for a surprisingly long time. He shrugged this off - it didn't matter. What mattered was that Carrie was dead, a lot of people at that rave were dead, and he had no idea why he was here or who was responsible for this.

Wait. 'mutie'. That's what the SWAT guy said. 

He silently slid off the bed and pressed his face against the bars. [color=aqua]"Is anyone in here a MUTANT."[/color] his monotone becoming louder at the last word.