[Action]
[Havoc wakes up in a strange house, as people do around here. But when he opened his eyes, that was the least of the surprises that waited for him. He first listened, before he moved. He didn't hear anything of note in the immediate vicinity. A ticking clock. A few kids screaming and hollering while playing outside. The low hum of the heater warming the house. His quiet, slow wakeup was interrupted by a racking, early morning smoker's cough.
Once it passed, he twisted his torso to look around the rest of the room. It was nice enough he supposed. But he wasn't where he was supposed to be. A glance out the window told him he was on the second story. Great. It was going to be humiliating to get back downstairs again.
He reached under his pillow for his old sidearm. Old habits die hard. But it was gone. Now he was really disturbed. All of his soldier's instincts were back to him now, full force. You can take the boy out of the army, but not the army out of the boy.
He flicked the covers off of his legs, and then it suddenly hit him. He could tell that the blanket was gone. He ran a hand over the pants of his pajamas and his jaw slacked. He could feel his hand on his legs. His bare feet were cold. He lifted his knees to his chest and the limbs obeyed. He turned and placed his feet on the floor. He braced one arm on the night stand, just in case this went how it usually did in therapy, and he ended up on his face.
But no. His legs were perfectly fine. No atrophy. No stiffness, no pain. No problem. He could feel a thrill of exhilaration well up inside of him. No. Now was not the time. He had to find out what was going on. He glanced around the room, looking for something that could serve as a decent weapon. He rummaged through the room, finally landing on a long wooden shoehorn. It wouldn't last, but it would do for now.
He pressed his back up against the wall alongside the door and opened it a crack. He peeked down the hall through the crack, before opening it a bit more so he could look down the hallway the other way.]
Once it passed, he twisted his torso to look around the rest of the room. It was nice enough he supposed. But he wasn't where he was supposed to be. A glance out the window told him he was on the second story. Great. It was going to be humiliating to get back downstairs again.
He reached under his pillow for his old sidearm. Old habits die hard. But it was gone. Now he was really disturbed. All of his soldier's instincts were back to him now, full force. You can take the boy out of the army, but not the army out of the boy.
He flicked the covers off of his legs, and then it suddenly hit him. He could tell that the blanket was gone. He ran a hand over the pants of his pajamas and his jaw slacked. He could feel his hand on his legs. His bare feet were cold. He lifted his knees to his chest and the limbs obeyed. He turned and placed his feet on the floor. He braced one arm on the night stand, just in case this went how it usually did in therapy, and he ended up on his face.
But no. His legs were perfectly fine. No atrophy. No stiffness, no pain. No problem. He could feel a thrill of exhilaration well up inside of him. No. Now was not the time. He had to find out what was going on. He glanced around the room, looking for something that could serve as a decent weapon. He rummaged through the room, finally landing on a long wooden shoehorn. It wouldn't last, but it would do for now.
He pressed his back up against the wall alongside the door and opened it a crack. He peeked down the hall through the crack, before opening it a bit more so he could look down the hallway the other way.]