Sonya Sanchez brainwashed herself, simply put. Any part of her that wasn’t a Tyrak supporting, nationalist TV presenter was shoved deep into her psyche, locked away.

But that real Sonya, a woman who was selfless and generous lived on, waiting for the day she’d surface. Today was that day.

Sonya sits in the backseats, quietly tapping her thighs to pass the time. Mindless radio chatter fills the car, as you drive to her next shoot. Mindless chatter, until…

“….Lola, a teenage girl killed in the riots of ‘86.”

Sonya felt something guttural surface, the urge to vomit strong in her throat.

“Stop…the car. Stop…” Her voice was breathless, any usual sass gone entirely. Once out of the car, Sonya falls to her hands and knees. Tears flood her face for the first time in nearly a decade.

“Lola, Lola, Lola….wh-what am…I doing…?”

Supporting those who killed her, that’s what.