The prisoner sat at the table in The Little Room and couldn't will his hands to stop shaking.

"Look," his advocate had said. "You're going to die on camera. It's going to be watched and rewatched a hundred times. You can't help it now. You can't avoid it. Just try to die with a bit of dignity. They'll try to take that from you. Try not to let them."

Bold words, sure and for certain. Spoken like somebody who had never been on The Wrong Side of the Table in The Little Room. Those two things hadn't become proper nouns until the third season. A fan had coined them, so they said, but it was surely all planted–it had to all be planted and what does it matter now why the Christ can't he stop his hands from shaking?

He was alone in The Little Room for…what? A minute? Ten? Ten days? The guard came in at the end of this indeterminate length of time, accompanied by the grinning demon known as The Host.

"Terrence," the man said without seeming to open his mouth. The smile was all. "How are you holding up?"

Oh, I'm fine, you grinning fuck. For sure and for certain. If I could get my hands to calm down I would put out one of your eyes with that microphone.

But he didn't say that. Thought it. Just as hard as he could. The mouth would obey even less than the hands. He realized that his mouth was hanging open, useless, so he shut it.

The Host nodded. As though he knew. As though he too had had his time on The Wrong Side of the Table and could relate to Terrence's, the prisoner's, plight. But of course he hadn't. The Host was still alive. That was the rumor, anyway.

"It's all right, Terrence. No shame in not having a witty retort. They never come across well on camera, I assure you."

Pause for the added laugh track. Fuck.

"Regardless, we're glad to have you on Home Counter Invasion. Glad for you meet your Greeter from the family. Are you ready?"

No pause for a fumbled, non-response. The Host barreled on through.

"Terrence, I'd like you to meet Gloria. I know she wants to meet you."

Gloria. Christ. Of course. The ratings darling. Jesus. Why can't he sit on his hands? Why can't–?

And she walked into the room. In the dress, she looked ten. Online they said she might be anywhere from fourteen to eighteen. The rumors said they played with her body chemistry to keep her looking young. More effective that way. Better ratings that way. White sundress. Better to catch the stains that way.

She walked into the room and pulled up the chair opposite Terrence. She sat down in the chair, prim and proper little lady. Prim and proper little lady with the carving knife, which she brought up and onto the table. She began drawing designs in the wood with the point.

Gloria looked at him. He found a coherent thought and couldn't lose it again: her eyes really are dead. No CG, no camera tricks–she was dead as hell inside there, oh Jesus, please–

"Hello, Terrence," she said, voice sweet as you please.

Pause for the demeaning, fumbling, non-response.

"Aren't you going to say hello?" she asked. "Where are your manners?"

"Hello, G-Gloria," he said in response. He thought he did. He couldn't be sure. Seemed to have. She continued.

"I'm here to remind you why you're here," she said, drawing still in the table top. Bits of wood curling up in the wake of the blade. "And to remind our viewers what's going to happen to you.

"You participated in a home invasion that resulted in the deaths of an entire family. Mother, father, three children. You couldn't even spare the dog. You were found guilty."

"Lookout," he croaked out, "I…just the lookout."

Something flashed behind those dead eyes. Something black. And cold. And slick. And in an instant, he felt the tip of the blade against the skin above his adam's apple. She had moved like silence, leaning just enough across the table with just enough pressure to shut him up. She couldn't mark him until the starting bell. Those were the rules.

"Look out," she said, and the corner of her mouth twitched. Twitched like a suffocating fish. "Good advice." She sat back down. It was moments like this that made her the favorite among the family. "The rules are simple. At the start of the bell, you have five minutes in the house to do anything you like. Except kill yourself, of course. And at the second bell, the rest of the family and I will come in after you. And we'll take good care of you. I promise."

With that, Gloria stood up and went to the door. The guard opened it for her but before she could exit she turned and said, "You know, Terrence. Your eyes remind me of the man who took my mother from me. I've already told the family I want them. "

And now she did smile. And it was the first genuine human looking gesture she had made.

"Look out, Terrence. Don't forget."

And she was gone.

Pause for thunderous applause.

The Host turned and saw that Terrence's chair sat atop a puddle of urine. Terrence was mumbling something to himself over and over again and was dimly aware that his eyes were wet.

"She's done it again," The Host told the viewers at home. "America's Sweetheart. That's our Gloria. We'll be right back for the first bell. So don't go far."

The guard reached for Terrence.

Pause for commercial endorsements.