Murderers aren't supposed to look this cheerful, are they? Or, if they are, they probably should be avoided. Still, the tall, gangly bloke looks so friendly, nibbling away at his ration pack as he stares through the glass at the Turner with rapt fascination.

On the inside, however, he is not quite as cheerful. He can't remember his names, either of them. Did he have more than one? Maybe he made one up when he went on the run after committing...whatever crime it was he committed. His bracelet has an M on it. Probably murder, then. Or mutiny? Money-laundering? No, that's just silly. Definitely murder. He is fairly sure he's a murder, even if he can't remember committing the crime.

The fact that deep down, despite not remembering much of his life, he somehow knows he's guilty of so much is rather worrying. What kind of a monster is he?

And yet, he has friends. No, had friends. Warped his friends. Led his friends to their deaths, or worse.

Oh.

The cheerful exterior fades, as does his appetite. He idly tucks the remainder of the ration pack in his crisp, new red jumpsuit and begins to pace back and forth in front of the glass like a big cat in the zoo. Something about the clock just keeps calling to him.