This was Michael Westen's second day in Taxon and he'd decided to go shopping.
He'd had a crowbar for a while earlier, when he still had some ambitions of getting out that day and having to wrangle a few guards on his way out. There proved to be no "out." "Out" was not on yesterday's itinerary. Panic was, definitely, being lost, that too, looking around for anything to arm himself with, yup, trying to make calls to Sam's Florida number from his nonexistent keypad on his new phone, unfortunately yes, ditching the crowbar when he realized he was looking like a man wandering around with a crowbar, that definitely. And crashing just on the downward slope from his panic, and sleeping the rest of the night through.
He was lucky he had epinephrine and its aftereffects to put him to sleep, because otherwise it wasn't happening. The next day he woke up fresh, well -ish, as fresh as a man could be without a shower, and reorganized his thoughts.
The panic wasn't doing him any good. He needed a goal. An immediate, definable goal. One that wasn't too hard, that he was likely to accomplish and check off, not a huge empty box hanging over his head like escape. That, Michael, was what you called an overambitious goal. Bad goal.
Now he was frowning into the window of a department store, next to a men's clothing display. He could use a new -- well, everything. This was some kind of joke. He was in prison. Did prison take US currency?
Well, he'd figure something out. Michael gave himself a look-over in the store window to make sure he wasn't too rumpled (okay, he was, but what exactly was he going to do about that now), smoothed his button-down shirt a little and walked around the corner to the automatic doors.
[Location]
He'd had a crowbar for a while earlier, when he still had some ambitions of getting out that day and having to wrangle a few guards on his way out. There proved to be no "out." "Out" was not on yesterday's itinerary. Panic was, definitely, being lost, that too, looking around for anything to arm himself with, yup, trying to make calls to Sam's Florida number from his nonexistent keypad on his new phone, unfortunately yes, ditching the crowbar when he realized he was looking like a man wandering around with a crowbar, that definitely. And crashing just on the downward slope from his panic, and sleeping the rest of the night through.
He was lucky he had epinephrine and its aftereffects to put him to sleep, because otherwise it wasn't happening. The next day he woke up fresh, well -ish, as fresh as a man could be without a shower, and reorganized his thoughts.
The panic wasn't doing him any good. He needed a goal. An immediate, definable goal. One that wasn't too hard, that he was likely to accomplish and check off, not a huge empty box hanging over his head like escape. That, Michael, was what you called an overambitious goal. Bad goal.
Now he was frowning into the window of a department store, next to a men's clothing display. He could use a new -- well, everything. This was some kind of joke. He was in prison. Did prison take US currency?
Well, he'd figure something out. Michael gave himself a look-over in the store window to make sure he wasn't too rumpled (okay, he was, but what exactly was he going to do about that now), smoothed his button-down shirt a little and walked around the corner to the automatic doors.