Had the young man wearing a fancy black coat with feathers that seemed to litter its surface like dust been entirely in control of his mental processes (i.e.: not being ridden by tranquilizers much as a wild Native American chieftain might ride a particularly unruly buffalo he was attempting to beat into unconsciousness), he might have protested the fact that he was stumbling out of a pantry. After all, he had been quite certain - quite, quite certain - that he was in a broom closet. It had just seemed like a broom closet-y place to his, admittedly quite addled, perceptions. But, he would have no doubt added with his infinitely cultured and graceful wit, Be it pantry, broom closet, or washing machine, when placed behind a strange closed door I'm not too keen. In that sense, I can only say to thee: wherever I am, it's the same to me.
Ah, what a beautiful and infinite fanciful jest that might have been. Instead, as he collapsed onto the floor in much the opposite position he already had been in inside of the broom closet-pantry, he had only this to say, in a voice that was projected quite adequately, if somewhat slurred. "G...Ground control... It's... 's Major Tom. No need... No need to worry, ground control. I hear you jus'...just fine. You don't have to shout. I made the cut. I...I got this. This tin can is in expert hands."
---------------------
In the meantime, Michael was really at a loss for exactly what he was supposed to do. He blinked at the crater. He blinked once more, somehow expecting all of this to make sense. He had certainly never taken drugs in his life that could have created the sight before his eyes, but he found himself mildly hoping, as there was a first time for everything, that he might find himself being yelled at by some killjoy bartender threatening to toss him out of the airlock.
Not that it would be a very strong threat. Unless they've been more diligent with repairs than usual, that airlock has some...features that would make throwing anyone out of it difficult at best.
But there were no yells coming. However, he felt like he could certainly hear something on the horizon. It was an oddly familiar sound, but not one that you heard very often in space. Soundless and all of that - Michael didn't get to be an expert broom technician by being a dummy. He was certain if he stood there for a few more seconds and really wracked his brain to come up with an answer, he could definitely figure it out.
He sighed. "Not that this makes any sense at all!" The broom technician ran several ideas through his mind - maybe he had developed super growing powers and teleportation at the same time, explaining how he managed to crush a house and have no darned idea where he was. Or perhaps his entire life had been an illusion; he had always been a guy who lived on a really nice street in a house that looked like a blast site. Maybe he had been dreaming inside a capsule and he had been sent, the last scion of his race, to save this planet and don spandex pants in order to fulfill his calling as some sort of fantastic guy.
Gee, that noise sure is getting louder. It's like it's coming closer. He scratched his chin as he evaluated the wreckage of the house - not that there was much to evaluate. ...Wait. Scion. No, that isn't a sound but it's close.
Tires screeched to a halt an indeterminate distance behind him.
Oh! Right! Sirens!
Wait.
"Oh hell."
((OOC: It occurs to me I'm not being clear. Do not worry about poor Michael here. If things should become more clear later, then you might be able to join, gentlemen.
For now, consider him as background noise. He wanders in an odd spot at my choice. It could be tedious; who really knows, but I think it worthwhile where he may go.))
|