Looking at herself through (what undoubtedly was) a two-way mirror, Eleanor decided to indulge in a little post-containment, pre-arrest madness.

She started making weird faces at herself (and whoever was lurking behind that glass and not helping a poor, frumpy girl out and releasing her. Creeps!).

After all, there was nothing more she could do. Even if, by some miracle, there still was a person behind that glass that was confident (or, fine, the least bit hopeful) that Eleanor Prickett's head was still all up there, the reality was that she was a five foot-and-something awkward human being with deeply ingrained social issues, who tried to slink out of getting arrested by speaking Elvish, Klingon and embarrassingly bad French (embarrassing because her mother had paid for French lessons for two years and all she could say was “Omlette du fromage”. Eek!).

In fact, Eleanor could pinpoint the precise moment she doomed herself.

At birth.

See, Eleanor could not, under any circumstance, handle having a conversation with more than two people at a time. The minefield of conversational art was a bit too rigged for Eleanor to win. The awkward pauses, the overlapping words, the constant need to bring forth the juiciest story, which, despite starting in all innocence, degenerated into cruel, biting gossip.. Even a normal conversation was difficult. She literally could not go twenty minutes without lapsing into a Ulrich Sloane coma-induced drool-fest.

Add the possibility of arrest and minimal electrical interaction to that, and Eleanor would have rather shoved her face into the deep frier than have a normal human exchange of information with an officer of the law.

Or anyone with a shred of authority.

Or just anyone with a pulse.

Not blocked by a monitor.

Needless to say, Eleanor Prickett was not exactly Miss Popularity back home. The forums were all she had and she'd have to go back to being another extra in others' movies, she'd do it on her terms.

Armed with this new-found courage, she straightened her back just fast enough to possibly snap her spine. She tried to put her hair back using her shoulder. She failed.

She tried again.

She failed.

And again she tried.

And she failed yet again.

“Ugh!” She snapped and shook her shoulder like it had suddenly been possessed by a 70's boogie-woogie ghost wishing for strobe lights and rollerblading rinks.

Great. Just what she needed. Rebellious hair.


Her hair still did not move.

“Whatever!” Eleanor muttered to her hair. She raised her head and looked at the mirror straight-on.

“I confess!” She shouted. I mean, we have indeed established that they could look in, but maybe they weren't listening to her.

She needed to look like a hair-eating, fish-mouthed freak like she needed a hole in the head. Well, a hole other than her mouth. Or nostrils.

“I confess, okay?” She yelled.


“Helloo! I said I confess!” Eleanor yelled louder, whilst also clanking her cuffs. “Sir?” She called when the nothing stretched into Nothing. “Wait. Do you even have a microphone in here? Did you even hear anything I said? HELLOOO!”

'Well, on the bright side, if the demonic clanking noises don't bring them in here, nothing will, and I'll just expire here, chained to a chair, in my own filth.' She thought, whilst continuing to yank on the chain cuffs with all the power she had.

Which was none.

But still.

Clanking was made.



Ulrich Sloane sat upright behind the two-way mirror. Not a single part of him touched the wall next to the mirror, the mirror itself or the chairs conveniently placed next to the glass. In that moment, Ulrich Sloane's muscles were tense and tightened to within an inch of their life and his fingertips were digging into the copy of the Bible that damn near took his head off.

He was looking at the only human who knew where his space was, outside his mother and Imogen.

And he could not fucking believe his fucking eyes.