Captain Richards and Lucy Jones are sitting in the squad room, he's holding his beer bottle, she's got a headphone in one ear, the other dangling in front of her. Her eyes have rolled back into her head, as per whenever she has a clichéd premonition.
1) Caption: NOW.
2) Lucy Jones: oh
3) Lucy Jones: HE'S COMING.
4) Captain Richards: HOW CAN YOU TELL?
Lucy turns to Richards, her eyes back to normal. She's looking peeved-- jokingly so, so stern eyes, slight smile, and he's drinking from the bottle.
1) Lucy Jones: DO I HAVE TO REMIND YOU ABOUT THE WHOLE PSYCHIC THING AGAIN?
2) Captain Richards: ...MAYBE.
We're now way back in the past, in Roman Lacuna's torture chamber. We're close up on the man who's about to be tortured to shit, tied to a table by leather straps (maybe more than just the few we had before, maybe he's really, impossibly tied down? Or maybe the straps are really thin and there are dozens of them, indenting his flesh?).
1) Caption: WAY BACK WHEN:
2) Roman Lacuna (off-panel, so no tail?) : WHEN I WAS BUT A BOY...
3) Roman Lacuna (off-panel, so no tail?): ...I USED TO PULL THE WINGS OF FLIES, ONE BY ONE.
Close on Roman Lacuna as he moves in so close to the torture victim, the closeness between them inherently uncomfortable, Roman's face a twisted expression of honest sharing and the kind of shit-eating evil you could imagine. He's holding a pair of vicious pliers-- razor sharp, jagged, crude, PAINFUL. And he's loving it.
1) Roman Lacuna: DID YOU KNOW THAT EVERY SINGLE FINGER ON YOUR HANDS ARE A LIE?
2) Roman Lacuna: I'M GOING TO MAKE YOU HONEST.