A small group awakens in a small room, no bigger than ten feet wide. Each member is lying on the floor, with both hands shackled to the wall by padlocked chains. They are all wearing their most usual outfits, with nothing missing from their person, though each has a painful headache and varying degrees of amnesia -- The typist is a small, mousy woman in her 30's, the laborer is a skinny, tired-looking man in his 30's, and the musician is a balding, long-haired old man in his 60's. None remember their names. All of them remember what they have done. [b]The Typist[/b] has a purse. [b]The Laborer[/b] has a small wound on his forehead, which is bleeding slightly. Each member of the group has woken up, expressed shock and fear at their surroundings, and have -- at least slightly -- come to grips with their situation. A few minutes of silence have since passed as each member collects themselves.

The floor is hidden by what must be several dozen filthy carpets and the walls appear to be brick painted a sickly yellow, covered in a thin layer of indistinguishable filth. A single lightbulb hangs from a short wire from the ceiling a few feet above. There are no windows of any kind.