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.]

[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.]

[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.]

Sayid!

[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:]