Guerra stirs.
As usual, he opens his eyes, groggily, before closing them again. He attempts to shift to a sitting position on the side of the bed, and is met with no response at all from his left leg, severe pain in his right shoulder and elbow, and a dull, dreary pressure in his fingers. His left arm, interestingly, is almost fine... until you reach the forearm- which doesn't move. His hands both work. He can also pull up his thigh, but the calf is completely unresponsive, akin to his other calf.
A bead of sweat manifests on his forehead as he begins recalling the last few days. Steele is dead, as is that technician. Can't remember her name, and I hope I never do.
Back to more... pressing matters, Guerra realizes the scale of the situation he has put himself into. Interestingly, he notes, that he cannot hear any trace of the voices that began tormenting him when he took down the airship. And where they've left empty space, clarity remains.
He is... well, a monster. An unstable psycopath. But do psycopaths ponder their own sanity? He looks to his left, and sees that he's hooked up to an IV. He concludes that the clear fluid inside of the bag is an anesthetic, hence his lack of emergency and, possibly, the voices.
He looks up, and sees stars. No, the ceiling. The anesthetics have taken a toll on his senses, evidently.
So there he lay, gazing. Not at the beautiful horizon of NAUC's mountain range. Not of the sharp contrast between Mercanan sands and the bright sky. A dull ceiling, with minor perks and quirks, such as a ceiling fan spinning just slow enough to not provide any meaningful airflow. He begins to deeply inhale for a sigh, but is cut off when he feels pain akin to his ribcage being, well, cut off. So he returns to gazing, philosophically entranced by drugs, mistakes and mediocrity.
He switches to the squad's radio frequency and despite being heavily injured, announces: "STATUS RED".
Poll