(Possible OTA to Wanda and Johnny, should they want to!)
Mike woke up in an instant wave of terror, but that's to be expected when you go from getting thrown by an explosion to — this. His eyes snap open and he's choking before he finally gets thrown again, only this time it's down and not forward. He hits the ground running, so to speak. Literally, almost. He gets his arms under him and scrambles, flight kicking fight's ass as he goes. By the time he hits the remnants of the medical bay, he's mortified to find himself — naked? What the fuck? What the fucking fuck? What're these blinking lights? This metallic room? This can't be happening.
Has he lost his mind?
Possible. Maybe he's in the middle of dying or some shit. He sure the hell hurts all over. He forgoes everything and grabs an abandoned jumpsuit, keeping to the shadows and holding his breath. Nobody's coming in here. It's all stripped of anything useful. By whoever. He thinks there's not many people in here with him; he can here a little clamoring, but not much, and he's not sure how much he trusts it.
He forces his aching muscles to move, shaking when he looks at his hands. Whatever the hell that blue shit is, it's still clinging to him, drying on his bruised flesh. The scrapes are all healed, sealed up, but he only just realized — remembered what happened to his fingers. Two of them are missing, sheared off and left with trembling stumps that aren't bleeding anymore, temporarily spared by the blue gunk's adhesive. He touches his hands to his face, his neck, his chest, finding injuries that are clean but throbbing violently. The ones on his chest... on his neck — shaped like claw marks.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
The climb out, once it's gone entirely quiet, is eerie to say the least. He isn't prepared for what he finds. Trees, okay — he was expecting forest, but not a fucking jungle. Not Tarzan, okay? Holy backflipping Christ.
The frozen people are something else together.
He wanders between them, stunned, waving his good albeit shivering hand in front of their faces. None of them respond — there's a lot of them, too. More than who was on the mountain. Kids, women, men. He must be hallucinating this. Gotta be something. Or has he been catapulted into some supernatural hell?
The other two who woke up with him may find him wandering here, but he's on edge, armed with his handgun and machete from home and swaying on his feet. So fucking tired... He has to get out of here. He doesn't know any of these people — they could be dangerous. Could be something fucked up.
Still shell-shocked, he goes into the jungle.
(OTA | the next day)
Mike isn't sure what he's doing right now. He's dressed up in his old clothes for the night, but he's sure to put on the jumpsuit too so he's warmer — but he's feeling exhausted, sick and torn the hell up. It suddenly occurs to him that he's got multiple injuries all over him that has been through some unsanitary shit. Maybe it's the goo that kept it from getting infected, but he's still out in the wilderness with nothing to bandage any of it with. No medicine or whatever. The ones on his neck needs stitches.
Where was he gonna find stitches? Something better to wrap his hand in, instead of a strip of jumpsuit? With that in mind, he... hesitantly wanders toward the camp, wondering if those creepy living statues had snapped themselves out of it. He's a hot mess when he reaches the outskirts, spying on everyone with a concerned eye.
"Jesus christ, where are you, Mike?" he asks himself.
This whole thing got a lot weirder.
Eventually he'll run into Octavia and get himself some treatment proper, and when he does, he can be found around camp officially. He's uncharacteristically quiet, sitting at a campfire with a scratchy old blanket around his shoulders and his arms crossed over his knees. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he's not sure where and when a decent time is to sleep.
It's hard. He's on edge. And he's thinking about what happened back home.
It's like that old song people made fun of, back home. One is the loneliest number.
Mike Munroe | OTA's All around!
Mike woke up in an instant wave of terror, but that's to be expected when you go from getting thrown by an explosion to — this. His eyes snap open and he's choking before he finally gets thrown again, only this time it's down and not forward. He hits the ground running, so to speak. Literally, almost. He gets his arms under him and scrambles, flight kicking fight's ass as he goes. By the time he hits the remnants of the medical bay, he's mortified to find himself — naked? What the fuck? What the fucking fuck? What're these blinking lights? This metallic room? This can't be happening.
Has he lost his mind?
Possible. Maybe he's in the middle of dying or some shit. He sure the hell hurts all over. He forgoes everything and grabs an abandoned jumpsuit, keeping to the shadows and holding his breath. Nobody's coming in here. It's all stripped of anything useful. By whoever. He thinks there's not many people in here with him; he can here a little clamoring, but not much, and he's not sure how much he trusts it.
He forces his aching muscles to move, shaking when he looks at his hands. Whatever the hell that blue shit is, it's still clinging to him, drying on his bruised flesh. The scrapes are all healed, sealed up, but he only just realized — remembered what happened to his fingers. Two of them are missing, sheared off and left with trembling stumps that aren't bleeding anymore, temporarily spared by the blue gunk's adhesive. He touches his hands to his face, his neck, his chest, finding injuries that are clean but throbbing violently. The ones on his chest... on his neck — shaped like claw marks.
Oh shit, oh shit, oh shit, oh shit.
The climb out, once it's gone entirely quiet, is eerie to say the least. He isn't prepared for what he finds. Trees, okay — he was expecting forest, but not a fucking jungle. Not Tarzan, okay? Holy backflipping Christ.
The frozen people are something else together.
He wanders between them, stunned, waving his good albeit shivering hand in front of their faces. None of them respond — there's a lot of them, too. More than who was on the mountain. Kids, women, men. He must be hallucinating this. Gotta be something. Or has he been catapulted into some supernatural hell?
The other two who woke up with him may find him wandering here, but he's on edge, armed with his handgun and machete from home and swaying on his feet. So fucking tired... He has to get out of here. He doesn't know any of these people — they could be dangerous. Could be something fucked up.
Still shell-shocked, he goes into the jungle.
(OTA | the next day)
Mike isn't sure what he's doing right now. He's dressed up in his old clothes for the night, but he's sure to put on the jumpsuit too so he's warmer — but he's feeling exhausted, sick and torn the hell up. It suddenly occurs to him that he's got multiple injuries all over him that has been through some unsanitary shit. Maybe it's the goo that kept it from getting infected, but he's still out in the wilderness with nothing to bandage any of it with. No medicine or whatever. The ones on his neck needs stitches.
Where was he gonna find stitches? Something better to wrap his hand in, instead of a strip of jumpsuit? With that in mind, he... hesitantly wanders toward the camp, wondering if those creepy living statues had snapped themselves out of it. He's a hot mess when he reaches the outskirts, spying on everyone with a concerned eye.
"Jesus christ, where are you, Mike?" he asks himself.
This whole thing got a lot weirder.
Eventually he'll run into Octavia and get himself some treatment proper, and when he does, he can be found around camp officially. He's uncharacteristically quiet, sitting at a campfire with a scratchy old blanket around his shoulders and his arms crossed over his knees. He can barely keep his eyes open, but he's not sure where and when a decent time is to sleep.
It's hard. He's on edge. And he's thinking about what happened back home.
It's like that old song people made fun of, back home. One is the loneliest number.
And he supposes he's that one guy.
... Fucking sucks.