Floating through the hazy void of neurons waking up from an unexpected sleep, Jack noticed blinking through the thin skin of his eyelids.

Red. White. Red. White. What was this?

And why did his bed feel so stiff?

He was lying in an uncomfortable position, as if he was bunched up somehow. A mental check-up on his physique immediately told him that something was off about one of his legs. A weird aching in the left one, to be precise. It still seemed to function, although there was a definite dull stabbing whenever he tried to move it. And the lights in front of his face were unforgiving, constantly changing at a fast pace, bringing him closer and closer to consciousness until he eventually opened his eyes. Immediately he registered two things.

Firstly, he realized why his bed was so hard. It wasn't his bed, at all; rather, he was lying belly-down on the cool, smooth floor. Secondly, the origin of the light. There, just an inch or two away from his face, was the small, holographic rectangle projecting from the wristband he was issued upon stepping foot onto C-10. It was used to contact housekeeping, message other C-10 occupants, change the music stations in the fitness room, and other important and/or miscellaneous actions of the like - including keeping track of all vitals and physical statuses of the wearer. Switching from its red and white backgrounds, the screen alerted him:



The message provided a harsh contrast from the rest of his surroundings, which were all bathed in darkness save for what light reflected off their white surfaces from the hologram. Whatever the emotions or thoughts that were dancing around in Jack's mind, he became certain of yet another thing as he considered his environment; he was, for some currently unknown reason, inside the closet of the fitness room. It was home to unused equipment and a few broken ones, as well as a first-aid kit that has yet to be touched.

Try as he might, our Mr. Cunningham can't remember how or why he was stuffed into this familiar but usually irrelevant space. Or what had caused this injury that his wristband was so eagerly going on about.

Suddenly there was a scuffing noise from outside of the door. It continued, until it stopped, sounding as if it had halted right outside of the closet. And then -

Knock knock.

Jack blinked hard a few times as he tries to adjust to a somewhat blurry awakening. For a moment, he panicked when he realized that it was rather difficult to stand, but he soon enough resigned to sitting up straight to getting a better understanding of his surroundings -- the fitness room's...closet. Clammy hands clumsily slapped along the floor, reaching for something, anything to pull himself up, but nothing was in arm's reach.

So Jack waited.

Maybe something struck him in the head, or the sheer shock of it all still wasn't allowing him to process the whole incident, but breathing easy wasn't so much of a difficult task as he would have first thought of it to be. Just within a few feet's worth of length was the first-aid kit, so Jack made his way over there by half-crawling, half-dragging himself. That in itself proved to be a more difficult task, especially considering the fact that he had to avoid the variety of overturned, broken gym equipment. Considering how much of a mess the closet was in, it was a miracle that Jack hadn't been worse off than he already was; even the lighter weights were fully capable of caving his skull in from just a few feet's drop.

While he was still fumbling with the latch on the kit's top, there came the knock. Almost immediately Jack wanted to call out, to address the knock, but there were other, more pressing matters at hand.

First and foremost, the incessant chirping from his watchband, which he lazily slapped until it shut off.

Then came the box; if he didn't open the box, he might not get to any pain medications in time. If he didn't at least sedate himself or get a clearer assessment of his current condition, there was simply no way he could oblige himself with anyone's business.

But then again, what if that someone had come to help?

In the real time, what Jack had elected to contemplate about equated into silence, for whoever was outside the door. It wasn't that Jack didn't want to answer; he just took too long to. It's mighty hard to blame someone for taking their time when they've just found themselves completely disoriented, and it might be moreso for those wanting to come out of the closet. No pun intended.

After a beat or two of the silence, the knocking came again, though this time it was followed by a voice.

"Mr. Cunningham? I have received notice that you have been injured. Are you alright?"

The voice sounded just like a male's, though something was just shy of authentic - there was a tinge of mechanism in the timbre, in the way the rhythm of the words were released. And it wouldn't take Jack long to realize that it was Miro, the AI that was assigned to him and the fitness center. He mainly kept the space clean and took attendance on who came in and out of the gym, what equipment was being used, etc. His demeanor was docile and friendly; he probably was reminiscent of the boy-next-door type. He served as a sort of receptionist and assistant to Jack, really. But that didn't mean he could be controlled or anything - just persuaded, if need be.

And he wasn't going to just open the door willy-nilly, in case Mr. Cunningham was changing or something inside of the closet. Though he did find it odd. "Mr. Cunningham?" Miro repeated, knocking again.

"Oh, Miro, it's you!"

That's what Jack blurted out. It was good there was a distraction to keep the pain away. Regardless of the robot's presence, Jack was capable of administering his own first aid, so having a robot do it for him was redundant. Off came the cap of the first aid kit, which contained a number of things inside. But he didn't peruse the contents quite yet.

First and foremost, though, Jack needed to know a few things.

"Can you tell me what happened in the past few hours? I heard a disturbance in the room you're in, and the equipment's all broken in the room I'm in. Was there a...collision of some sorts? And...well, I don't remember how long I've been in here."

While Miro formulated an answer, Jack was already well on his way to taking out the anesthetics, the painkillers, the splints, and the bandages. Now was the time to take inventory of himself.