As last requests went it was modest. ‘Don’ mess up Lorna.’

They prepared him as the hour approached—a process, nothing more. Clinical. Dispassionate. The tattoo portrait was in a good spot—they’d be able to position the electrodes without disturbing it. Without messing her up. Her hair, her smile. Her dark pupils on flesh coloured eyes.

Led into the room, concrete on three sides, he scanned the blankness—the two-way mirror stare. On the wrong side again. Just reflection. Him and the guards and the chair. She’d be there. He tried to penetrate the glass. He knew she would.

She’d be watching as he’d watched her. Before the cage, the talk-talk-talk, the running and the fog. Before the fury. Oh yeah—she’d be there alright.

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