At first, Timothy had no idea what was going on. The musical tones the creatures used to communicate - for he'd quickly figured out that was what the sounds were - had become excited, short staccato bursts that flew up and down the scales as though being chased. It sounded almost like the frantic twittering of birds, if birds sang with the voices of synthesizers.
Timothy opened his eyes in dread, craning his neck around to see what was happening. There seemed to be twice as many creatures in the room as usual, half being the ones he was used to, and the other half being slightly different. The newcomers were more red-tinged, and their tentacles were arranged in far more symmetrical clumps. Furthermore, within each clump, the tentacles were all exactly the same length. The two upper clumps of tentacles were longer, and the two lower clumps were shorter, but they were very even. Timothy hadn't really noticed how uneven the tentacles were on the previous group until he had these new ones for comparison.
Timothy wasn't sure what was happening, but he had the sinking feeling that things were about to become much worse. The old set of amoeba-creatures, the greenish and bluish ones, seemed to be shrinking. They weren't actually getting smaller, but they did get shorter and broader as they squashed themselves down to nearly half their height. A series of musical tones were exchanged between the newcomers and the old group, and the old group moved towards the back of the room.
Suddenly, Timothy felt a weight lifted from him that he had not noticed was there. With a surge of hope, he tried - yes! He could sit up! Panic made him leap off the table, as he noticed several other men did as well, and dart for the front of the room. He could see a darker section of wall behind the red-tinged creatures, and as he got closer he saw that it appeared to be an opening. Wary of the newcomers, he darted around them - they were large, but not fast or nimble, and he easily outmaneuvered them - and charged through the open door.
He did not go far before hitting a wall. The place he had entered was dark, and he felt his way along the wall, trying to find a continuation of the corridor. He found nothing. He tried to turn around, but other men were squeezing in behind him and he was caught up in the throng. Panicked, he tried to shove them aside and get back to the previous room, but he could already see the red-tinged creatures approaching the entrance he'd so brashly run through. The light from the room began to disappear as a wall descended between the crowded men and their former holding cell. Timothy realized with despair just how easily they'd been trapped.
They sat in the silent darkness for what seemed like a long time. After so many bad experiences in what Timothy had come to think of as the "torture chamber," the men had gotten out of the habit of talking to each other. Instead they sat in the darkness and awaited their fate with quiet resignation, accompanied only by the sound of their own breathing.
Timothy dozed, unable to help himself; he was weak with undernourishment. They all were. He made himself as comfortable as he could with his back against the wall and fell into a light, wary sleep, unable to keep his eyes open now that there was no imminent flight.
He awoke some time later to light flooding into the cell. Timothy blinked owlishly, but hung back, not knowing what this new development might bring. He could not see much beyond the other men, and the light was coming from the far side of the cell, the side which had been open before. No one was moving; everyone was wary.
But as the seconds drew on and became minutes, and nothing seemed to be happening, the men became curious. One by one the men closest to the door began to ease their way out, suspiciously at first, then with greater confidence. When the crowd had thinned enough that Timothy could see beyond the pressed masses, he beheld was appeared to be a green meadow.
It was beautiful, really. Little more than an open field, from what he could see of it, with a crisp blue sky overhead, and the sweet smell of grass drifting into the dark cave of the cell. Not wanting to believe it, but desperate for any form of comfort, Timothy hobbled his way out into the sunlight, blinking as its full force hit him. It was bright after the darkness of the cell, but nothing compared to the harsh white light of the torture chamber, and so he was grateful.
The grass of the meadow was soft beneath his bare feet, and as he looked to the side, he saw there was more to the environment after all. A small pond off to one side was shaded by trees lining its bank. Next to it, incongruous amongst all the greenery, was a boxy concrete structure, looking something like a bunker or bomb shelter.
Timothy felt tears well in his eyes. It felt good to be outdoors again. He didn't know where they were, but hopefully the aliens had dropped them home, and would just leave them here...?
He looked back, but the large, smooth white structure that had been their holding cell was still there, looking out-of-place, like a piece of giant white litter. Still, maybe they'd come back for it later, in which case it was best not to stay around it. Perhaps they hadn't meant to drop the men here, or perhaps they were trying to lull them into a false sense of security.
Nevertheless, Timothy thought, it would be best to enjoy such bliss while he had the chance. He made his way towards the pond, before being suddenly distracted by the most wonderful of smells. He detoured quickly towards the bunker, finding the small open doorway towards one side, and darted in.
The smell was coming from a series of bins, all of which housed the same mushy brownish substance. Beside the bins were a pile of small bowls, possibly wooden, although when Timothy touched them they felt far too smooth to be wood. He dipped a bowl into the brown substance and held it up to his nose. Yes, that's where the delicious scent was coming from, so wonderful, so mouth-wateringly delightful... It could be poisoned, of course, but did he care? Things couldn't get much worse, he figured, so he might as well take the chance and fill his stomach.
Timothy dug in, and found the substance to be the most amazing thing he had ever tasted. It was like a combination of everything wonderful he'd ever eaten, a thousand different amazing tastes at the same time, but each distinct, none interfering with the others. It was all Timothy could do not to gorge himself on the substance, but he forced himself to eat slowly, so as not to make himself sick. He ate the amazing mixture until he was full, and then made his way back outside, away from the thick crowd of men all trying to get their first decent meal in... weeks? Months? Timothy had no idea how long it had been.
He stretched himself out in a sunny spot on the bank of the pond, and allowed the warmth and the long-forgotten comfort of a full belly to lull him to sleep.
He awoke to the sensation of being moved, and when he opened his eyes, found himself staring up at one of the red amoeba-creatures. He panicked, thrashing in its grip, even as the long tentacles wound themselves tightly around his wrists and ankles. It was only ever the long tentacles they used, he'd noticed. The ones towards the outside. The ones with which they'd- he struggled harder, desperate to break free.
"Don't fight," came a raspy voice to his right. Timothy jerked his head around to see one of the other men, looking freshly-groomed with a neat haircut and close shave. It was only by contrast that Timothy realized how disheveled they'd all gotten. The man was smiling weakly. "They're not going to hurt you," he said, his voice hoarse, presumably from screaming. "I think these ones are good."
Timothy was not convinced, but he did cease his struggles, as they didn't seem to be doing much good, anyway. The red creature carried him away from where he'd been lying, towards the woods and then-
Suddenly the field was gone, as though they'd walked through an invisible wall into another room, and the blindingly bright light was back. Timothy began to panic again, a whimper of fear rising in his throat. He couldn't take any more of the abuse. He couldn't.
But they didn't lead him to any kind of table. Instead, there was a small, box-like room, more like a padded cell, really, barely large enough to move around in, sunk partially into the floor, into which he was gently lowered. The ceiling was closed over him, and the light once again dimmed to an acceptable level. Timothy sat on the floor, hearing his heart pounding in his ears. He had no idea what was going on, but there was no way it could be good. Why had they taken him away from that paradise-like place? Was this some new form of torture?
A thick mist began to fill the room. Timothy tried to hold his breath, to avoid breathing it in, but it was no use. He soon broke down and was forced to take in a heaving lungful of the fog. It felt cold sliding down his nostrils and throat, but it didn't seem to have any untoward effects, at least not immediately, so Timothy sat and endured it. The mist beaded on his skin and clung to him in cool droplets, but in truth it felt good, soothing, as though it was whisking away all the dirt and grit that had accumulated on his body.
That wasn't the only thing it was whisking away, he realized, as his face began to itch. He reached up to scratch at his chin, only to find that his beard - which, he realized now, had grown quite large in his captivity - was falling out in clumps, leaving behind skin as smooth as silk. A red light began to flash in the room, a beam that shone over him, and suddenly Timothy's head felt a lot lighter too. He shook it, and the ends of his hair fell to the ground around him, like wool shorn from a sheep. He reached up, but his hair was not gone entirely, unlike his beard. It was merely closely and neatly cropped in a small, efficient haircut.
The mist became thicker, and was accompanied by a stiff breeze. The excess hair was blown away, and Timothy shivered slightly as the wind caressed his damp muscles. Then the wind died again, and the mist once more grew thicker, until Timothy could not even make out the sides of his cell. He could feel the mist seeping into him, sinking into his skin and filling his lungs and touching him inside and out. It felt oddly invasive, slightly uncomfortable, but not painful, as though he was very nearly breathing in a liquid.
He endured, and soon the mist dissipated, and the top of his cell was opened once more. The same alien creature, or perhaps a new one - they all looked so similar - came and gently lifted him up with its tendrils, carrying him back to the meadow. Once there, the being moved towards another of the men, still unkempt and wary, and began to herd him towards a corner. Timothy did not watch, instead resuming his position by the lake. To his surprise, it seemed to be growing dark; he barely remembered actual night, and could feel the fading of the daylight bringing forth a familiar weariness in his limbs. The excitement of the day caught up with him, and he drifted off to sleep.