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'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!]