Saturday's hand touches Cammie's shoulder, Cammie recoils, and the flash of memory turns to the pressure of a strong, metal hand wrapped around the same spot, pushing down on her body whilst the other latches onto her head, tugs and twists and—

There's that strange sensation of metal tearing, of sparks and electricity arcing, of pain that's somehow tinged artificial and yet feels no less real. That piercing, visceral scream sounds electronic, and yet exactly the same as Cammie's real voice in the here and now, letting out an aborted cry of her own.

But reality must be creeping back in at the edges, because as Cammie shakes her head she splutters out a response.

"Saturday? Saturday, Saturday I—" A pitiful whimper. "Can't, I can't, he's got me, he's got me I can't—"