Maybe You're a Joker, Maybe You Deserve to Die

[dmboogie]

((Michael Mitchellson: Continued from Adam and Eve and Steve))

It didn't take Michael too terribly long for him to realize that, yep, he'd fucked up. Time had passed, darkness was falling, and he was still nowhere near close to tracking down any of the miscellaneous missing assholes. The smart thing to do would've been to return to Phoebe as soon as he realized that he didn't have tracker blood in his veins, but nope, he had to try to do the cool thing and avoid returning to her empty-personed. Michael had considered trying to go back to the overlook and reunite with her, but it got too dark too soon for him to make it all the way back in time. Phoebe had more sense than him and was probably long gone anyway, hiding away for the night in some secure hole.

Michael decided to follow imaginary Phoebe's example and find a nice corner to curl up in. The elusive asshole hunt could wait until morning, probably. The hotel was nearby and would have lots of rooms and shit to hide out in for the night, so that's where Michael headed. The lobby almost scared him off completely, being home to several grossly mutilated corpses that he didn't have the guts to look at directly, the stench almost unbearable. Michael took another glance at the darkness outside and steeled himself. It wasn't very fucking likely that he'd be able to find anywhere on the island without tripping over the body of some poor son of a bitch, so he'd have to just deal. Miraculously managing to refrain from vomiting, Michael rushed through the lobby and practically flew up the stairs like a majestic fucking eagle.

He didn't stop running until he hit the top of the staircase. Michael had to stop for a minute to catch his breath, because he was obviously much too badass to ever partake in something as pedestrian as basic exercise. The important thing was that he'd gotten himself far, far away from the corpses. Michael picked a door at random, and after a quick glance around the room for other students or particularly frightening insects, he placed his shotgun and hat on the nightstand, collapsed on the bed, and failed to immediately fall asleep.

Instead, he found himself staring blankly at the ceiling, lost in thought. This was the first time in his five days on the island (shit, had it really been that long?) that Michael had been really, truly alone, and he hated it. There'd always been someone to watch his back to make sure no one was gonna slit his throat in his sleep, someone for him to tell dumb jokes to. But, through the course of being a totally smart dude who made very good decisions, Michael'd managed to lose everyone. Shit, he hadn't ever managed to even find anyone. What the hell was he even doing? Why the hell had he even ditched Rachael or Phoebe in the first place?

Michael didn't find any answers in the ceiling. That fucker. In search of something, anything to do, he took out the notepad from his pocket and tore out a page, writing a quick message.

To the one who finds this note: Yo, I would appreciate it if you didn't kill me. Like, that'd be super cool of you. Just saying. Sincerely, Michael Mitchellson.

He gently laid it on top of the shotgun. Hell, it couldn't hurt. Who needed friends when you had a sternly worded piece of paper? Michael, that's who. He sighed, rolling over and closing his eyes. Tomorrow would be a new day.

---

Michael woke up. Still alive. Still alone. In with the new day, same as the old day. Slowly, listlessly, he ate, hatted himself, and headed back downstairs.

The lobby looked even worse in the light of day. Smelled worse, too. Not a place to linger. Michael rushed out a door, not paying close attention to which door. He found himself by the pool, almost tripping over the corpse of some redhead. As if that wasn't disturbing enough, Michael just had to glance at the pool itself and see what was floating inside it.

He did throw up, this time. Michael weakly stood up, throat still burning, and stumbled away from the scene. Shit was fucked up. Shit was really fucked up. This obviously wasn't his first time seeing a corpse, sad as that was. This wasn't even his first time seeing a mutilated corpse. But after seeing what happened to a human body when it was allowed to rot in water for a few days... Michael shuddered.

Another day passed. Another failure. Michael searched, by god, did he search, but he never found a single friend. There were other people in the distance, every now and then, but he steered well clear as soon as he got a good enough glimpse at them to make sure they weren't someone he gave a shit about. Eventually, far sooner than Michael had hoped, he found himself returning to the hotel as night fell, no better off than when he had left it.

Michael wasn't sure whether to be relieved or pissed that he hadn't gotten used to the friendly corpses in the lobby yet. At least he didn't throw up again. He found himself returning to the room he had stayed in last night, note and everything. Michael still couldn't sleep.

What had he actually accomplished during his time on the island? Fucking nothing, that's what. He'd lost his friends, abandoned the poor bastard in the hospital on the first day, only survived his "rescue" of Andi due to mercy on the cowboy's part. He had desperately tried to be the hero, to do good, but where had it gotten him? Alone, weary, and hating himself on a shitty hotel bed in a slowly crumbling room. How stylish! How heroic! He deserved a fucking medal for fucking up so badly! Was Daniel even still alive? Was Corey? Rachael? Tim? Phoebe? Michael didn't know, and it was driving him crazy. Useless, useless, useless.

Michael sighed. Closed his eyes. Tomorrow would be a new day. Had to be.

---

In with the new day, same as the old day.

((Michael Mitchellson: Continued in The Faster the Treadmill.))