"Pinch Punch, First Of The Mon…", John sent Alan crashing into the server rack, the great tower simultaneously wobbling dangerously and remaining completely unaffected. He blinked, trying to keep reality in focus.

"Horseplay is not allowed, Alan."

"Neither is assault, granddaddy." The man spat.

Alan was a phantasm, another fucking figment of his fucking fucked imagination. "Piss off…" John turned away.

A small hippopotamus hid behind a coil of wires, and he could taste yellow, some letters and numbers. R4118.

It tasted a bit like coconut.

Around him lay detritus from weeks of escape attempts.

Server racks torn apart, chairs destroyed, panelling torn, a nice tidy office reduced to little more than rubble, but at the same time whole and unaffected. A 2026 calendar lay ripped apart on the floor and hung neatly on a wall.

Everything felt alien, but familiar, like a cart wheel to a tire, one an evolution of the other.

A radio continued playing numbers only he could hear, and he shut his eyes, focusing on the quiet hum of the cooling fans. Calm, he needed calm, even if he was stuck in this purgatory.

"Get it under control, John. Tell me the numbers." Said Alan, straightening his RAF uniform.

"Numbers?" "You tune them out, just like you tune… me out." John ignored him.

Kneeling behind the server rack, he produced a pair of wirecutters and snipped a wire.

Part of the rack went dead. Alan cursed, and kicked out at him. No effect.

The radio played unabated, R4118, R4118, R4118, but louder now.

"Tell me and I will go away." But there was something in Alan's eyes, something urgent.

John stood and tried the door again. Locked… it was always locked.

R4118, R4118, R4118, deafeningly loud inside his mind. "It won't stop, John. I will have it."

He swiped ineffectually.

Through the window, he could see a young man asleep on a cot, but he never stirred. Just like the clock didn't change and hunger never came. Well, physical hunger… A different kind of famine was ravaging his mind not accustomed to unreality, a hunger solely of spirit.

John took one last look around the room before committing to the one act he had fought against for so damn long. The radio blared, R4118, R4118, R4118, static scrambling briefly, as his eyes glided across the room and then, R4118, please come home.

John blinked. He looked around again, eyes passing a power socket. R4118 we got you.

Alan looked up. "Don't you fucken dare…" His accent, posh since the first fucking day now sounded wrong.

"Maybe I do dare." John smirked, crawling to the socket and prying off the cover.

Alan grabbed at his ankles, his fingers phasing through the flesh.

The cover clattered and John jammed the wirecutters into the exposed wires, expecting pain to shoot through him and kill him.

He blinked and saw a propeller outside, a cockpit, and out front the airplane station. An American flag waving. He angled in his Hurricane for landing.

In his head, Alan cursed his name and progeny, a fledgling tinny sound that faded into non-existence.

Peace at last.