Connie stumbled about her holding cell, tripping over her own feet, and picking up and inspecting each piece of equipment she could as the voice carried over the PA system. There were other cells. Other cells containing what? She tapped a test tube against the temple and rattled off numbers on her hand. There had to be something in her bank of knowledge to help her. [i]More cells,[/i] she thought, [i]more cells, more cells... they don't keep different experiments in the same space, so... more cells, more people[/i]. Questions avalanched to the forefront of her mind, changing and shifting with each discovery, and more screamed for attention as time passed.

She tried to think logically. The last thing she remembered was coming home, going to the basement and feeding the snakes, the rats, the tortoise... had she fed the spider? What did she do after that? Her memory went blank and picked up at different times, great spots of it missing. [i]I was drugged[/i]. Waking up in the cell minutes earlier still had her heart straining in her chest, her hands shaking and blood cold. The tattoo spreading from the base of her neck down to her arms, always visible, and the presence of scar tissue elongated the panic.

Collecting her discoveries, she reiterated, [i]we were drugged, taken, experimented on and held here[/i]. But the questions continued to beat at her brain. A headache began to form. She turned her attention on the present; where was she now?

The cell looked nothing like she had ever seen before, the equipment only vaguely recognisable. That could be because of her current memory malfunction, or something else. The facility couldn't be run by any institution she was aware of. There was a powerful intercom system, the door was mechanically operated, and signs of human life besides herself were nil. She considered the possibility of a recent evacuation and felt her heart beat impossibly faster. What hazard had spiked an evacuation here? 

Finally, Connie approached the door. She was caught between two courses of action; stay and become trapped, possibly drugged again, or disobey the voice and try to get out. The decisions came down to what she was more afraid of, and she decided staying wasn't an option.

Squeezing as much of her body through the gap in the door as possible, Connie shifted and pushed until the gap allowed her to slip through. Focused on getting out, she didn't account for the ease with which she opened the jammed door. She caught sight of a flickering screen on the door – the brightness of it like an icicle to her optical nerve – and froze. 

[center][b]CONSTANCE BAXTER
ADMITTED: APRIL 10th 2015
CURRENT DATE: JANUARY 16th 2025[/b][/center]

[i]...Ten years? That's not possible. Being drugged for that long...[/i]

Jolted out of her thoughts by the sound of footsteps and a voice, Connie whirled around and faced the dim light of the corridor. She didn't know whether to walk towards the voice or away from it, but the footsteps seemed to be coming from the opposite direction. Whichever way she went, something would find her. Out of fear and scientific curiosity, she pressed herself against the wall beside her door and waited.