Sounds of shuffling and muffled male voices swearing. Complete darkness. Hot, itchy cloth pressing against face, wrists bound, rough hands manhandling her up three, four steps, then down steps... she loses count on the way down.

The hands dump her without ceremony into a hard chair. Hands at the back of her head, cloth pulled away from face to reveal - more darkness.

Her eyes slowly accustom themselves to the murk through a chemical fog. A cellar, small, bare brick walls. Terrible smell: something rotten.

Sight gets gradually clearer; now able to pick out two male figures in seats opposite across the bare concrete floor. One, the larger, sits upright, shoulders hunched a little forward. The other slumps forward, clutching something in his hands in the fork between his legs. Seems to be manipulating it - small metallic clicking sounds echo around the walls.

Silence broken by larger man. "Yup, she'll do."

Other man looks up jerkily, nods, goes back to the equipment between his legs.

"Who are you?" she croaks, voice ruined from screaming.

Smaller man looks up again, half-smiles. He's wearing a doctor's coat.

"Interesting first choice of question. Shows your priorities. Connecting people. Connecting with people."

Larger man interjects: "Probably why you won that pageant of yours."

She looks down: still wearing her frock and sash. Her tiara has been lost somewhere in the commotion, probably in the trunk on the way here.

"Wouldn't call this much of a prize though." The smaller man has fixed his equipment. It consists of several syringes arranged around a metal frame, shaped like a melted and twisted glue gun. Evidently warped to inject certain chemicals into specific locations.

"Not a prize. Not as such, no." Larger man shifts in his seat restlessly.

Smaller man stands.

"Think we owe you an explanation. See, we work for a very wealthy... lady. She is very keen to maintain a certain... standard of appearance. Now ageing and pollution and UV and gravity being what they are, this is difficult."

Takes a few steps towards her.

"She likes you. You're a winner. She wants a piece of something like that."

Raises syringe gun to her neck. She's unable to scream anymore, as much emotionally as chemically. Drained.

"So we'll donate your brain to a good cause, don't worry. Your body too. Don't take it personal. Goodbye."