Hey, so here's the third chapter… I'm not sure where this story's going! But I'm trying to plan things out. I have a vague idea so hopefully all will be well.

I promise to finish it, because there's not much that's more annoying than a story that someone doesn't finish. Grrr it actually annoys me sometimes (Yes, I'm crazzzyyy!)

So… review? Please? I love to hear your comments, good and bad (but if you don't like my story – don't read it! Simple!)

DISCLAIMER: I don't own the characters or anything, and if I did, why would I be here?

The nurse, Bertha, who is adjusting something on the monitor I'm attached to, looks very nervous. Her innocent, pretty, blue eyes keep darting back and forth between me and the screen. I bet they've told her I'm unhinged, dangerous and a murderer. And I don't blame her, either. If I were her, I'd be nervous too. She turns away from the screen and smooths my bed sheets quickly, as if I'm going to grab her wrists and strangle her.

"You'll be discharged tomorrow," she says nervously.

I nod to tell her I understand. But I know what she means. I'll be discharged alright, and then I'll be placed in the handcuffs I saw earlier and dragged away to the CIA for questioning. Whether that questioning includes torture or not, is a different matter.

"Thankyou," I croak back to her, because after two weeks of being here, I've been fed a minimal amount of food and I'm too weak to pick up the heavy water jug, which I swear hasn't been replaced in two years, judging by the bugs and dust floating on the surface.

She jerks her head and scrambles for the door, leaving me to my own dreadful thoughts again.

The last few days I haven't had any visitors. Only the doctors and nurses come into the room, and even then, they disappear very quickly. Not one of my friends has come to see me. Not that I blame them, of course. I betrayed them, just not for the reason they think.

I slept strangely well, and woke up as the sun rose. The room was bathed in an oddly beautiful orangey light. For a moment, I imagined myself normal and happy again. But then one of the guards stationed outside my door came bursting in and broke the moment. He let a doctor and her assistant nurse in, before they all walked over to me.

"Well, Ms. Morgan, ready to be discharged?" asked Dr Jenson.

Actually, I was anything but. But they still practically drag me from the bed and downstairs to the reception desk. After numerous papers are signed, the two guards handcuff my hands behind my back and shove me through the sliding front doors and straight into a black, secure van.

It speeds off immediately, causing me to become unsteady on my feet. Without the use of my hands, I stumble and hit the edge of the van before any of the guards can help me. The force causes me to black out.

The first thing I note when I wake up, yet again, is the cold, hard steel of the CIA interrogation bench, which I am handcuffed to. I look up as someone enters the room. It's the Assistant Director of Interrogation herself.

She's a tall, strong-willed looking woman who wears her hair pulled back into a tight bun. Her high cheekbones and thin, pointed nose make her look very serious. I have no doubt that her heels are designed to be able to kill anyone in at least fifteen different ways. They've got nothing on my old ones though; they were also a phone and could be used twenty-six different ways.

"Ms. Morgan," she starts, once she's dropped a file onto the table and sat down. "Do you realise what you've done?"

I do, but I don't say anything. The Circle trained me not to. They even practised torture methods to make sure I wouldn't blab. They didn't need to waste their time, anyway. I wouldn't endanger my friends' lives by saying anything.

"Ms. Morgan, answer the question!" When she walked in, I noticed a small name-tag on her skirt which read Allison Lowe – Assistant Director of Interrogation.

I sigh and lean back in my chair, as far as the handcuff will let me.

Allison shakes her head and picks up the folder. "Cameron Ann Morgan... Daughter of MIA Agent Morgan and Headmistress of the Gallagher Academy for Exceptional Women… Graduated from said school… Unknown personal relationships… Unknown place of residence… Recruited by the Circle of Cavan nineteen months ago… Been discovered on numerous missions for the Circle of Cavan…" she reads from the folder.

I just stare at her. She looks back, unblinkingly, with her harsh, light brown eyes. She doesn't smile or talk about my grades at Gallagher. I guess because none of it matters. What matters is why I did it.

"You see, Ms. Morgan, what gets me interested is why you would work for the people who kidnapped and supposedly killed your father… why help them when you know they ruined your life by taking away your own father? It doesn't make sense," Allison tonelessly says, leaning forward on her elbows.

Silence.

"Why? You can tell us. We won't hurt you."

Silence.

"You are in so much trouble, Ms. Morgan. You are being charged with treason to the CIA. You will go to jail for a very long time, so why not speak up and help us?"

Silence.

Allison sighs and sits back in her chair.

"Shall we see if you'll be more cooperative tomorrow? If not, we might have to revert to some, uh, more persuasive methods," is what she says before she stands up from her chair and leaves the interrogation room.

I just slump my head back onto my arms and rest. Will this ever end?