Like clockwork.

The man studied, and was studied in turn. Arbitrarily numbered Six by those that deemed it necessary to break his will, know his secrets, the prisoner thought – obsessed, really – on the latest turn of events. The village that had become his world melted and changed around him. Sometimes he would see a person, recognize him, at last speak to him under what pretences he saw as fitting, and the person would disappear into the framework.

The arbitrarily numbered Six wondered, from time to time, whether he was the only prisoner here. No, he figured it wasn’t true, but he was paranoid enough to entertain the idea whenever he was feeling particularly annoyed with the confines of the Village.

He remembered when it started. When he was without the shadow doubt that plagued him now, and he thought he might escape and return only to dissolve the misbegotten place. Or when he thought he might escape, and disappear into society without a trace; they couldn’t catch him if he were diligent enough, if he were always looking over his shoulder.

Now, escape attempts were second nature. He didn’t need to think when an opportunity presented itself, merely act, and he preferred it that way. Whoever it was appointed, or whoever appointed himself, whichever it was, and whoever chose to manipulate events against him did not concern him. Not when they foiled his attempts, and not when they demanded their information.

He could have told them, if he wanted. He could have told them anything, but then, he knew, he was stuck here forever.

No, he preferred his routine, attempt, fail, dream.

One day, it would be attempt, succeed, live.