<div style="text-align: center;"><span style="font-size: 150%; line-height: 116%;"><span style="font-weight: bold">Roland Mikkerson</span></span></div><br/><br/>A throbbing head-ache brought him to consciousness. He opened his eyes only to quickly shut them against the harsh, sterile lighting. He sat up, shielding his eyes from the florescent ceiling panels with one hand while questing out with the other. Snatching up a bottle that stood on the bedside table, he raised it too his lips, but was only met with a smattering of drops. With an annoyed growl he looked at the bottle. "Gosling's Gold" was printed boldly on the front. Slowly the gears of his mind ground together. "What happened last night?" Thinking back he found that he could not recall the previous night, but, given the empty bottle, it did not surprise him. In fact it felt reassuringly familiar. "Where am I?" As he cast his gaze about the room through squinting eyes, he was met with a small metal cell. Some jetsam he paid no attention to, lay scattered about. "How the fuck did I get here?" He tried to plunge deeper into his memories, but came away with nothing. He couldn't even figure out who "I" was.<br/><br/>He was confused, and his confusion turned into anger. "This is some bullshit." He catapulted out of bed, flinging the sheets on to the floor. On impulse he grabbed the neck of the bottle and smashed the body on the bedside table. He whirled around, brandishing his improvised weapon, hoping for an adversary; someone to direct his rage at. Nothing but empty air confronted him. "What the. . . Who. . ." As the wave of unanswered questions bore down on him he calmed down. "I've gotta get out of here." He began searching the cell, hoping to find something to give him a clue. Amidst the odds-and-ends he overlooked previously, he found a black suit with a hole in the chest. Holding up the jacket, it was immediately clear that it was too small to be his. Unconsciously he fingered the ragged hole and his digit came away bloody. He dropped it, feeling guilty and unsure why.<br/><br/>He continued his exploration of the room, finding a poster of a movie he could not recall watching. Beneath the "Die Hard" title was Bruce Willis. Strangely enough he knew the actor's name, but not his own. As he scratched his head he realised that he too, was bald. Realising that he couldn't even remember what he looked like spurred him on mission to wring some clues from this place. On a table at the opposing wall was a mangled teddy bear holding a note. Its odd red stuffing spilt out from rents in its fabric in a silly imitation of blood, and an ear dangled by several threads. It was dressed in a copy of the suit he had found, complete with a hole in the chest from which sprouted a tuft of stuffing. He grabbed the steel dog tags from around the bear's neck, reading "Evan Mikkerson." He didn't know who's they were, but he knew they weren't his. Moving on to the note he read "Brothers in arms" and beneath it. "Roland Mikkerson." He had heard that name enough to recognise it as his own.<br/><br/>A grinding of metal heralded a segment of the wall's opening. Besides the portal was propped a worn wooden baseball bat. Tossing aside the broken bottle he heafted the bat in one of his meaty fists. Whoever put himin here was gonna get slogged. Following the corridor brought him to a circular room with a couple of other folks in it. Before he could dole out a string of swear-words he saw what they were all looking at. The roof was a clear dome that looked out onro a planet. Looking at the the other occupants, he exclaimed, "Oh fuck!"