[ WP ] A person who does n't have a name

`` And what do they call you?'' 
 
 `` What do you mean?'' 
 
 She looked up from her clipboard, smiled at him, then took her glasses off. These were things she had been taught: kind and endearing gestures. The smile had taken the most practice. 
 
 `` Your name. What people call you. A word by which you are identified.'' The smile was locked on her face. `` Your name.'' 
 
 `` I do n't. I do n't understand.'' He sat across from her, held in his chair by heavy padded straps. `` I do not have a *name*.'' 
 
 `` You must.'' She leaned back and gently placed the clipboard on the table. More trained gestures. `` What do you call yourself? 
 
 His gaze fell to the table, his face expressionless. The room was quiet but for her gentle breathing. 
 
 `` I. I refer to myself as I.'' His face lifted and met hers `` Or as Me. I have no name. I have had no cause for one.'' 
 
 `` People must call you something, though. Surely?'' 
 
 `` They call me You.'' He said `` Or Patient. Should I have a name?'' 
 
 She stood and slipped the clipboard off the table. `` Maybe. We do n't know for certain.'' 
 
 He watched as she left the room and continued to stare at the door when she was gone. 
 
 She stepped into the connected observation room where a sheet of one way glass showed the room she had just left. A tall man in a black tailored suit stood alone, his gaze fixed on the unseeing and nameless figure in the other room. 
 
 `` Your thoughts, Penny?'' 
 
 Dr Penny Illard looked from her boss to the interview room and the *thing* that it held. It's face, or where a face should have been was a flat glossy red material. Somewhere behind that was the culmination of twelve years of research. A box that held a dead man's thoughts. 
 
 `` He is conscious and aware, but he does not appear to remember his own personal history.'' She said. 
 
 The suited man smiled at the glass. 
 
 `` Good.'' He said, his voice so low it could barely be heard. `` Good.''
