He walks amongst us, but he is not one of us.

[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.]

[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?