diealone: (left behind)
[Jack's in his room instead of the infirmary, and he looks a little haggard. There's some stubble on his jaw that looks a day or so old, there are bags under his eyes, and while he's no where near as bad as the people who went through the door, he still looks... rough.

For more than one reason, honestly. With David gone and Banner messed up by the other Barge, Jack's one of the few medical professionals left on board, and he's been in the infirmary pretty much at all hours.

But then he'd come back to his room, and found- well. Let's just say the Admiral, or whoever this is, picked a bad day to be messing with him.]

On September 22, 2004, I was on a plane taking my father's body from Sydney, Australia back to Los Angeles. Oceanic Flight 815. We crashed in the South Pacific on an island in the middle of nowhere.

[Not that that means anything to any of you, but it means something to him, in ways he'd never thought it would when he first woke up in that bamboo grove.]

That was ten years ago, according to the calendar here. [He lets out a short, vaguely bitter laugh.] If the calendar even matters.

It hasn't been that long for me, but it's been a while. Three years. At first, we thought forty eight people survived the crash, but only six of us ever got off the Island. I spent so long trying to find us a way back home, and when I got there, after everything we'd been through, and everything we'd lost? I realized something didn't feel right. And I found out way later that we never should have left.

[And now John and a whole lot of others are dead. And he absolutely feels like it's his fault.

He lifts up a tiny toy airplane for the audience at home to see, and the expression on his face is still pinched, frustrated, maybe a little unreadable. He's upset, but it's hard to pin down why, really.]

I'm getting really tired of being somebody's plaything.

[He drops the plane and rubs the heel of his hand over his forehead, brow furrowing in continued simmering frustration.]

If anyone needs medical attention, I'll be in the infirmary.

[Instead of getting plastered, because he's already done the turning into his father thing.]
diealone: (the other 48 days)
[Jack's in the infirmary, which is where you can find him pretty much on any given day. There's no question or hesitation when it comes to taking advantage of this situation, because this is what he's been hoping for for a long, long time.

One hundred and ninety eight days, actually.]

This is Dr. Jack Shephard. [And he looks well, honestly. He's clean shaven, clearly has access to hot water and shampoo and all that. Which is better than could be said of him in the past.

A lot better.]

If you can hear this, [He doesn't mean just anyone, he wants to hear from the Island, even though he's already bracing himself for disappointment.]

And I promise, I'm working on finding a way back. I'm going to fix this.
diealone: (there's no place like home)
[Just before setting off into port, you're being treated to another public service announcement, courtesy of the angry inmate doctor.

For the first time in what's probably a couple weeks, Jack isn't wearing scrubs or a lab coat when he turns on the video feed, but he's still in the infirmary. He's just in the process of slinging a backpack over his shoulder and apparently getting ready to leave.]

I know I'm not the first person to say it, but trust me - pack before you go running off into the woods by yourself. Bandages, plenty of water, food, something to build a fire, all of it. We have no idea how long we're going to be here, and you run out of things faster than you think you will.

If you get hurt and don't have any first aid experience, get in touch with me or one of the other doctors. Don't try to pull anything out of a puncture wound unless it's basically a sliver, I don't care what you saw in a movie about needing to dig a bullet out, and don't eat anything you don't recognize. [Which he feels like should go without saying, but considering some of the stuff he's seen people do here... yeah, going to say it anyway.]

Stay smart and stay safe. See you guys back here in a couple days.

[Spam for Scott]

[Jack hadn't asked too many questions about why Scott had seemed relatively insistent on hanging out with him versus doing... anything else. The doctor might not like being an inmate - and probably never will - but he's definitely become fond of his warden, and there are definitely worse ways to spend the next couple days than hiking around in the woods with him.

Really, he probably could have been saddled with just about anyone, and he'd probably still be having a nice couple days ahead of him. He's missed this. Missed it a lot, actually, so even if this planet isn't anything close to the Island, it's still nice to off the Barge and away from his old apartment and the infirmary and everything else, and part of him almost wishes he didn't have to go back.

Almost, but being here forever isn't where he needs to be, so here we are.

They've been walking for a while in silence, and while that's fine, Scott definitely seems a little... off. Not quite sullen, not quite unspeakably upset, but off, and after a while, it's not something he feels like he can get away totally ignoring.]

If you're getting tired, we can stop and have lunch. [Or you can talk about what's bugging you? Either way.]
diealone: (catch-22)
[Jack looks a little stressed. Understandably. He's got a mean five o'clock shadow going on, and from the angle he's got the journal at, you can see Scott standing by the door to the infirmary, looking similarly tense and worried, but okay. They're both fine.

They're just also alone, in the infirmary, with limited weapons, resources, and access to things like morphine and anything more useful than bandages and basic antiseptic.

(Jack's made do with less, but that doesn't stop the resentment from coiling in his gut again, setting him further on edge.)]

Scott and I are in the infirmary. It's safe, but the hall outside seems pretty bad.

[Or at least, Scott had said it smelled weird, and Jack is not really in a position to be doubting his teenage werewolf warden right now.]

If anyone needs medical attention, we're here, and we can help. If you're stuck and need help, call us, and I can try to talk you through how to get up here without hurting yourself or your friends worse. If you're in your room, get first aid kits, scissors, water, food, alcohol if you don't have anything else to sterilize a wound, anything that can be made into bandages. People are going to get hurt, and I will try to save you, but I can't do that if we're not being smart.

[And then his expression twists into something that's bitter and fond, and a little less psychotically focused, because he throws this out there like he doesn't mean it, but he does. Or at least, he's starting to again.]

Live together, die alone.

[Jack lets out a breath, composes himself again, and then the same incredibly focused energy is back in place of whatever that was.]

Has anyone seen Dillon or David?
diealone: (the greater good)

Well, [Says the woman in the scrubs and lab coat, who's apparently been hanging out in the infirmary more or less since the flood started. And also more or less more than half the day since that last port, from her perspective.

(Jack's too, so despite how much he still hates being here, at least he's trying? Sort of?)]

If anyone's in need of medical attention, or has any questions they have a burning desire to ask, [Although she looks both amused and annoyed at the prospect of having to answer sex ed questions, you all should know how this works by now. We're mostly adults here.] The infirmary's open, and I'll be more than happy to help.

["Do no harm" and all.

One corner of Jill's mouth lifts in a sort of wry, not exactly bitter, not exactly sad smile as she changes tracks.]

Honestly, I don't really care what gender most of you think I should be. I just tired of waking up in someone else's bedroom. [Finding the pieces of a different version of her's life is just. Unsettling. And some of it makes her miss home, except she thinks she means LA and not the Island, this time.] Out of curiosity, how many of you have kids?

[ooc: Jill Shephard has been a little more vocal about her experiences on the island, and the fact that she's a parent to her nephew, or used to be, anyway, and is generally a slightly less miserable human.]

diealone: (the other 48 days)
[Jack's in the infirmary, and has been pretty much since port ended, give or take a few hours - it had been his first stop after getting himself cleaned up a little, and after finding out Banner and David are pretty much down for the count for the time being, he doesn't feel like leaving is really a responsible decision to make. He might still be feeling less than charitable towards a good percentage of the population here, but he's a doctor. He's pretty much the only one they've got right now, and he cares about enough people even tangentially to not want to leave.

Unfortunately, he's still not a warden, so his access to certain things is restricted, which is still a sore spot, but. He is trying to suck it up for the time being.

So he looks pretty well put together, in a clean set of blue scrubs with a white lab coat, and is currently standing in front of some of the cabinets in the infirmary. He looks a little tired, but attempts a smile for the camera, and it looks genuine enough. Again, tired, maybe a little strained, but not fake.]

For anyone who hasn't met me yet, I'm Dr. Jack Shephard, and I was a spinal surgeon in Los Angeles for years before coming here. The infirmary's still open for anyone who needs medical attention, but we're short staffed. If you've signed up as one of our on call wardens or have any medical experience or training at all, [with the obvious exception of Dr. Lecter :v] We'd definitely appreciate having some extra hands once you feel up to helping out.

And even if you think you might need medical attention, I suggest you stop by. Better to get it looked at now before you're face down in the hallway with a gangrenous blister.

[He's about to leave it at that, but then his face screws up in thought for a moment, because this is something he's been sitting on for a while now, and the port had really only made it worse.]

A few days after our plane crashed, we started running out of fresh water. We hadn't found any sources of it on the island yet, so everything had to be rationed, but there just wasn't enough to go around for forty seven people sitting around in the hot sun all day. This one guy - someone who'd tried to save a woman who was drowning earlier that morning - tried to come up with a way to pass it out to the people who needed it the most by stealing what was left of it, and everyone else ganged up on him when they caught him. One guy really started wailing on him, and then I showed up and-

[He stops short and chuckles at himself.] I ended up giving this - [His expression screws up again into something self deprecating.] Speech, because I guess everyone needed me to be the leader. Or just needed someone to be, and I happened to be a convenient nominee. Anyway, I said that every man for himself wasn't going to work, and that everyone needed to find a way to contribute, because before the crash? We were all strangers. On the Island, we couldn't be. So if we couldn't live together, then we're going to die alone.

[Which is being said with the conviction and finality of someone who still believes this, and who's said this phrase a million times since that day.]

"Live together, die alone" kind of became a catchphrase for us. Even for people who met up with us who weren't on the plane. [And he still misses them, and still hates that so many of them are dead, now. How many are even left? They still don't know what happened to Sun, why she hadn't been with them when Ajira Flight 316 had gone down.]

I still think that's true, here. Maybe we don't die permanently when we die here, but if we can't figure out a way to work together? You'll get left alone in a bad port like that, or get too busy fighting about how things should work to realize you're missing what you set out to accomplish in the first place. Find some way to contribute. I don't care if you're a warden or an inmate: we're all in this together. And for a lot of us, if we can't learn to live together, we really are going to die alone.

[Private to Scott]

We're getting you an inhaler, and giving ones to anyone else you trust to keep it safe for you in case something like that port happens again. [This isn't something you're going to have a choice about, if his tone of voice is anything to go by.]

Are you still having any symptoms, or did it stop once your powers were restored? And while we're on the subject, do you have a history of any other medical conditions I should be aware of if something like that happens again?

[Private to Stiles]

[... This is slightly more complicated, because he's definitely not a psychologist, and he's not even exactly certain of why Stiles bolted in the first place. They'd tried to follow him, but considering how little they knew about the terrain or whether they'd even been in this cavern before, it had pretty much been a lost cause from the start.]

Did you find Scott?

[That seems safe to start off with.]

[ooc: Feel free to spam Jack in the infirmary if you're in the mood for that!]
diealone: (because you left)
[The Jack who appears on screen is a little more haggard looking than normal. He's sitting on the bed in the other Jack's apartment, which is clean and looks expensive even from this angle. Not over the top Tony Stark or Wayne Manor style expensive, but pricey and nice and modern. He's got a little bit of a five o'clock shadow going on - ignore that it isn't five o'clock - and is wearing a worn Boston Red Sox cap, which he pushes off his head so he can run a hand through his hair.]

I haven't been in this apartment since the world went to hell.

[But he does recognize it, and give it a sort of sad, solemn look as he glances over his shoulders and looks around a bit.]

When things like the actual zombie apocalypse happen? [He continues with the finality of someone who's had this conversation one too many times.] You kind of need to start making some rules. I always looked at is as a reason to try and preserve some kind of order, or humanity. Other people made up some to stop them from getting too attached.

[And that's definitely part of why he's been telling everyone just to call him Boston - it's where he was headed after things went to shit, and it's the name Tallahassee had given him when they'd first met. She had said it was better that way, if people were strangers even after they'd been traveling together for a while, so when things kept going to shit, you couldn't get hurt any more than you already were.

Which is kind of the problem, here.]

So if anyone has a recent explanation for why I've got a picture with me, Tallahassee and the kid she rescued acting like some big, happy family- [He holds up said picture for you all to see, which features a much more put together looking Jack, a dark haired woman and a blonde toddler all smiling together out in public in a pretty clearly zombie free Los Angeles.] I'd definitely be interested in hearing it.

[There's definitely some bitterness there, but he mostly just sounds tired.

(And maybe bitter.)]

Cap, I really think I need a drink.

[ooc: Jack is from Zombieland canon, and has been traveling with counterparts to Kate, Aaron, Sawyer, Hurley and Sayid. He's also still an inmate, because Jack's issues transcend universes.]
diealone: (follow the leader)
[Open Spam]

[There's really only one thing Jack's been wishing for since waking up there: to go back to the Island. There are other things, too - he misses his friends, he wants a chance to get back and fix everything - but that's really at the heart of it. If he gets back, he'll have his friends and his second chance, so between that and the fact that he's still not thrilled to be here, he finds himself wishing he was back on the Island pretty much ten times a day.

So throughout the flood, he finds leis dropped on his head. Tropical drinks - non alcoholic, and usually in some tacky plastic glass with a paper umbrella - turn up on any flat surface he makes his mistake of turning his back on for a second. His closet is suddenly full of Hawaiian shirts, and he wakes up wearing one the next morning.

More personal things, too. Kate's airplane turns up in the infirmary, followed by her mugshot, and he crumples the latter quickly before smoothing it back out again and trying to tuck it in the pocket of his scrubs - his Hawaiian print scrubs, Jesus Christ - before anyone notices. The Numbers appear on the wall across from him in the dining hall, and he drops his fork when he spots them.

Oh, and a weird brand of food is now popping up in the dining hall when he visits. Try the ranch dressing!

And feel free to catch him scowling at the stuffed polar bear that's turned up on the common room couch.]


[So later on, Jack has apparently decided you know what? Fuck it. He is giving up, because evidently he can't just run away from this, and talking himself out of thinking about the Island isn't going to work. If it did, he'd be a hell of a lot happier in general.

He's standing in the dining hall, wearing a Hawaiian shirt, sporting a real flower lei, and there's quite an array of tropical drinks sitting on the table behind him.]

Alright, if anyone wants fruit punch in a plastic coconut shell, or- [And he lifts up a pretty impressive handful of other leis, some real, some totally fake and super tacky looking.] Leis, apparently I'm gonna be haunted with them until the Admiral decides to take a hard left away from whatever the hell he crashed into.

They're non alcoholic, but they're actually not terrible.
diealone: (some like it hoth)
[Jack is standing on the planet's surface, close enough to the Barge that you can see it off to the side. He doesn't look fazed, or especially hurt.]

That was quite a crash.

[The sky is also blue, and the ocean is salty.]

Is everyone alright?

If anyone who isn't hurt is interested in seeing what this world has to offer, I'll be headed out, soon. I'd welcome company.
diealone: (lafleur)
[Jack clicks on the video feed and then hesitates, pressing his lips together in a thin line of frustration, like he's trying to decide if saying any of this is a good idea or not.

Apparently it is, because he does eventually start talking.]

About a week after our plane crashed, [Which is still sort of weird to talk about here, where no one had known about it besides Scott and apparently Nathan, but that flood had made him blab about way more than being in a plane crash, so. Here we are.] One of the other survivors got their hands on the flight manifest. We crossed off the names of the people who'd died in the crash, and used it as kind of a baseline to figure out who everyone else was, and why they were on the plane in the first place.

Obviously we don't have something like that, but if there is something big coming - and I guess it sounds like it is - I feel like we should make one to keep track of who's who, what cabin you've been assigned and at least a baseline of where you're from and why you're here. You can include other stuff if you want.

And before someone says it, this isn't some Patriot Act invasion of privacy stunt. You don't have to answer if you don't want, but considering how often people disappear or wind up a completely different person for a couple days, it might be good to have some kind of record of who's where.

So if you could get that information to me over the comms or in person - you can tack a note to my door, if you want - I can keep an updated list in one of the common rooms or the dining hall or something. Wherever's convenient for people.
diealone: (exodus)
I guess this is why trying to keep anything a secret here is kind of a lost cause. [And he knows by putting himself out there, he's going to be opening the door for answering a lot of questions about things he promised he wouldn't talk about.

But does any of this matter? No one here seems to be from his universe. The Island probably doesn't even exist for most of the people here, and he's tired of needing to lie. He's tired of being at the mercy of someone else's plans.]

I've got two questions, and I don't care if you want to ask me any in return. For the wardens: what made you want to come here, and is it worth it?

[ooc: Jack is affected! I strongly encourage everyone to bother the hell out of him.]
diealone: (some like it hoth)
[Today, Jack sounds almost more resigned than anything else. His breach life hadn't been especially bad, and it feels kind of muddled to him now, like a dream he's trying to convince himself to forget.]

You know, before I got here, I was pretty convinced I'd already seen the weirdest things the world had to offer. And as weird as floods are, I think I'd take my chances with those over whatever that was. [He's got enough things to deal with in his own life without adopting the issues of some other-him, thanks.]

I hope your deals are worth it.

[Filtered to the Infirmary Staff]

[This is something he's been sort of meaning to do for a while now, especially now that he's spending less time sulking and digging his heels in about being here and more time realizing he's been basically sitting around doing nothing for the better part of two months.

He's been here for forty two days. Might as well try to do something useful.]

I don't know how busy you guys are, but if you need an extra set of hands, I've had a lot of experience putting people back together with pretty limited resources or staff. I got my Bachelor's at Columbia, graduated early from UCLA medical school and was a spinal surgeon at St. Sebastian's in LA, if that helps.

And if it doesn't, Scott can vouch for me. [And there's a bitter part of him that's furious that they might actually take him up on that, considering all the experience he's had, all the good he's done and the pressure he's put himself under to help people.

But he knows he'd be suspicious and reluctant to hand over responsibility or control to a relative stranger, especially one in a position where he really didn't necessarily have any reason to trust them.]
diealone: (do no harm)
[Jack's in the infirmary wearing a labcoat and blue scrubs, and looks... pretty much exactly the same as he usually does. Maybe a little less angry and jumpy, because he's been here long enough now to calm down a fair bit - or at least get better at not being angry at everything every waking moment of every single day.]

Alright, this is probably one of the stranger floods I've been around for. [And he sounds more okay with this than anyone who has interacted with him thus far] Is anyone actually keeping track of what changes people are experiencing?

And I strongly encourage you all to listen to Dr. Banner's reminder in cause things go sour, considering how things usually go when different personalities are involved.

[A while later, there's a second note tacked on to the wardens. Note that this isn't on the warden filter, just filtered to them. Jack still has quite a ways to go before he's on the other side of this fence.]

[Filtered to Wardens]

[Now he sounds a little pissed, but it's really more just aggravation because:] I can't find my keys to the infirmary anywhere. I know they were in my room, and it doesn't look like anyone's been in there, but it still might be a good idea for someone to ask the Admiral to change the locks and for everyone else to make sure no one's wandered off with theirs.
diealone: (there's no place like home)
[It probably shows just how strong the Admiral's - or whatever causes floods, anyway - abilities are that Jack is one of the participants in this card swap. Even with the outside influence, he'd dragged his feet, and wound up only giving out cards to Scott and Nathan, and they were more thank you notes than Valentines.

The next day, he sort of seems mostly the same, although he's sporting a slightly different haircut complete with doofy sideburns. Thanks Scott.]

So, what, that's it? Not that I'm necessarily complaining, but I had the impression that "floods" were a lot less grade school.

[Spam for Duke & Open]

[Somewhat unbeknownst to him, the new hairstyle isn't the only thing he's picked up from this flood. Although he's still cranky and on edge, he's calmed down a lot over the last few days.

Given up is probably the slightly better way to describe it, because this is just crushing, and of course no one gets it. It's not like he can tell them what he'd needed to do, what the Admiral had cost him, because he still just doesn't believe he'd died. Wouldn't he remember something like that?

Anyway, sitting around sulking in his room hasn't been an option, and so he's taken to getting as acquainted to the ship as an unassigned inmate can be. He wanders around the library, the deck, the mess hall, and might even bother to start up conversations with people that aren't mostly him jabbering nonsense about how he isn't supposed to be here. So, that's progress.

What's arguably stranger is the fact that when he spots Duke in one of the common rooms, he's just immediately drawn to the guy. Who knows why, but he just seems like someone who used to be kind of an asshole and now is just. Super awesome. What a great guy.

Ignore the fact that he's never actually spoken to you before.]

Hey, Duke, right? [He's... maybe done a bit of backreading to fact check a few things and better familiarize himself with what the hell is going on here. u__u]

[ooc: Fuzzy time throughout the flood welcome for spam if you are interested in it, and if none of those lame little prompts work for you, feel free to get creative.]
diealone: (the substitute)
[It's been a few days since his arrival, and Jack's had some time to sit and let this all sink in. It's, bizarrely, helped a little that Scott and Nathan seemed to know who he was, had apparently had a conversation with him three years ago before they'd left the Island, before he decided they had to lie about everything. It makes it easier to focus less on keeping up appearances, and God knows he's had enough of that over the last few days (weeks, months, years) to last him a lifetime. He's kept a relatively low profile, although he has wandered around a little, and changed out of the khaki jumpsuit he'd shown up in, so he doesn't quite stick out like a sore thumb.

When he turns on his comm, he's in his room: a relatively nice, moderately expensive looking bedroom without too much personalization. It's neat enough, although there's definite signs that someone's been living here - the bed's not really precisely made, that sort of thing. Jack himself looks calm enough - maybe a little stressed out, or just distressed, or irritated, but he's keeping all that back in an attempt to get the hell down to business.]

My name is Jack Shephard. I was a spinal surgeon in Los Angeles before- [He hesitates a beat, and one corner of his mouth ticks up a bit in a disbelieving smile.] Before I died.

[Because he doesn't believe it, really. Everything about this is so absurd, and even with everything he's been through in the last three years, he still can't just roll with this.]

People have already filled me in on what's going on, but there's been a mistake. I don't need a second chance. [And some of the desperation and anger is starting to creep past the forced calm.] Your "Admiral" took me away from mine, and I don't see how being locked up with a bunch of murderers is supposed to fix anything.
diealone: (confirmed dead)
[Spam for the Hallway on Level One]

[It's like... a record skipping, or car breaks giving out just as you hit a patch of black ice. One minute, he's racing away from gunfire, dragging Sayid along with him, glancing back over his shoulder to track the progress of the van, knowing they're going to make it because this is what they were supposed to do, this was going to fix everything-

And then he... trips? Something hits him? He's not really sure, but whichever it is, he winds up face down in a hallway.

It's not exactly the strangest thing that's ever happened to him, but it still throws him off, makes him think what now before pushing himself up enough to look around, try to get his bearings back.]


[He's alone. Sayid's nowhere in sight, and neither is the van, or Hurley, or Jin or Miles. He pushes himself to his feet, and realizes he has less than no idea where he is. If it's somewhere in the Barracks, he's never been there before, and why would he have wound up here?

Was it a flash? It didn't seem like what the others had told him about, and if it was, why was he the only one who skipped ahead? Why would it have been a flash in the first place? Where the hell is he? He has to set off the bomb.

He's wearing a beige jumpsuit with JACK, WORKMAN stitched into the left pocket and a black and white octagonal patch above that with the word DHARMA in the center. There's a large red gash on his forehead that looks mostly scabbed over, a cloth bag tied around his waist, and he's sweaty, out of breath and desperate looking as he casts about, struggling to process what the hell is going on.]

Sayid? Hello?

[ooc: Multiples and fuzzy time welcome. c:]


diealone: (Default)
Dr. Jack Shephard

that's what they say. that's not what they mean.

Don't choose, Jack. Don't decide. You don't want to be a hero. You don't want to try and save everyone.

Because when you fail, you just don't have what it takes.