[Michael is pretty sure he's losing his goddamn mind. He thinks that a lot, actually, but this time it's not because something impossible is happening. This time it's because things are somehow too possible. The ideas in his head make complete sense. And that's far more terrifying, if he's honest.
Usually he can fight the dangerous impulses in his brain, at least for a while. If he thinks something irrational, he can usually tell, can usually talk himself down, eventually. But now he can't convince himself that he's wrong, he can't find evidence to contradict it. He's so sure that Harlan got him sick on purpose. He's so sure that this plague was planned. He's absolutely positive that if he goes outside, someone is going to hurt him. That they're probably outside his door right now, listening to him cough, deciding how best to get inside, how to drag him away or kill him. And why shouldn't they? He's a murderer. And they all know it. They have to.
For the first few days after the fever sets in, Michael barricades his apartment, locks his phone in the spare bedroom, and hunkers down to wait them out, sitting flat against the wall. He doesn't know how much time passes, but most of it he spends staring at the door, knife in hand, his own senses on high alert- but not just his. The Visitor believes him, apparently, or maybe it's just more proof of the truth. They watch together. They wait together. And nothing happens... until eventually Michael realizes he can't last like this. He's still sick, and he's running out of food. He has to go out. That was probably their plan.
It takes him a day to convince himself, and when he finally does unblock the door and very cautiously step outside, he doesn't do it alone. The Visitor's awareness moves through his limbs like adrenaline, (with adrenaline, probably,) directing his attention, his movements. Its entire existence is violence and threat, so it seems only logical, in that too-sure, frightening way, that it would know best.
Michael leaves his apartment building with his hood up and a knife gripped under his sleeve. Anyone who approaches him can only be doing so for one purpose, and he's not going to make it easy for them.]
Michael Munroe | Closed | CW: probable violence, possible death
Usually he can fight the dangerous impulses in his brain, at least for a while. If he thinks something irrational, he can usually tell, can usually talk himself down, eventually. But now he can't convince himself that he's wrong, he can't find evidence to contradict it. He's so sure that Harlan got him sick on purpose. He's so sure that this plague was planned. He's absolutely positive that if he goes outside, someone is going to hurt him. That they're probably outside his door right now, listening to him cough, deciding how best to get inside, how to drag him away or kill him. And why shouldn't they? He's a murderer. And they all know it. They have to.
For the first few days after the fever sets in, Michael barricades his apartment, locks his phone in the spare bedroom, and hunkers down to wait them out, sitting flat against the wall. He doesn't know how much time passes, but most of it he spends staring at the door, knife in hand, his own senses on high alert- but not just his. The Visitor believes him, apparently, or maybe it's just more proof of the truth. They watch together. They wait together. And nothing happens... until eventually Michael realizes he can't last like this. He's still sick, and he's running out of food. He has to go out. That was probably their plan.
It takes him a day to convince himself, and when he finally does unblock the door and very cautiously step outside, he doesn't do it alone. The Visitor's awareness moves through his limbs like adrenaline, (with adrenaline, probably,) directing his attention, his movements. Its entire existence is violence and threat, so it seems only logical, in that too-sure, frightening way, that it would know best.
Michael leaves his apartment building with his hood up and a knife gripped under his sleeve. Anyone who approaches him can only be doing so for one purpose, and he's not going to make it easy for them.]