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✈ day two hundred and thirty one, video
Sep. 22nd, 2014 07:41 pm[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.]
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.]