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Michael wakes up to an agonizing pain in his stomach, a steady pounding in his skull, and blood in his mouth.
He doesn’t know where he is, or how he got there but he knows he has to move, has to get to his feet, before whoever did this catches up to him and finishes the job. Before he can pull himself together enough to try and sit up through the haze of pain, though, someone speaks.
His vision is fuzzy around the edges, dark spots dancing in front of his eyes, but he still manages to find the blend of vaguely human forms moving above him, hands gesturing and pointing, feet shifting in place. He can’t hear what they’re saying, but feels the warm pressure against his bare skin as he's lifted up by his armpits and ankles. He tries to protest, but can't make a sound, lips cracked and breath shallow, only dimly aware of blood trailing on the ground behind him. Bright white overtakes his vision, body aching, muscles sore, and he squeezes his eyes shut against the sudden flare of light, the dark behind his eyelids glowing dull red, as a razor arc of pain shoots up his spine, and the world falls away.
##
Michael opens his eyes, and swallows, disoriented. He's lying on his back, mattress hard beneath his weight. He's bare chested, shirt crumpled up into a mess of dark fabric next to him, top surgery scars hidden by the thin gauze bandage wrapped tightly around his stomach. Dried blood stains the fabric dark against his flushed pale skin. He looks up, bleary-eyed, to see a man with dark hair standing over him, a gleaming, ornate knife held in his hand. Michael scrambles back as much as he’s able, adrenaline buzzing through his veins, dampening the screaming pain of stretched stitches. “Who – who the hell are you? What do you want with me?”
“What do we want with you? We found you fucking bleeding out outside our hotel room,” the man snaps, gesturing towards Michael’s bandage.
Michael doesn't let his guard down. “Uh, why exactly do you have a knife, then?”
“Had to cut your shirt off you.”
Michael eyes the man. He doesn't look like he's lying, really, but Michael still doesn't trust the knife. Or the stranger's knowledge of first aid. He frowns, gingerly touches the gauze. “Did I… have a camera with me, when you found me?”
“No. Sorry."
Michael grimaces. “Shit.”
“What? What is it? Is someone gonna come after us?”
“No, I just… don’t remember how I got injured. That’s all. Guess I’ll never know, ‘cause my fucking camera’s gone!” He laughs, slightly hysterically.
“How do you not remember how you got stabbed ?” the man says incredulously.
“Long story. Not really the t– oh. Wait.” He feels something crinkle in his pocket, and fishes out a crumpled note. He unfolds it and stares at it for a moment.
‘ Got jumped by a proxy. Nothing serious. Don’t worry. Guy’s dead now. - P’
“Fucking fan tastic,” Michael mutters. “ Just what I wanted today. Oh–” He glances up at the man. “What day is it, by the way?”
“Uh, the twenty-fifth of May.”
“The twenty– goddammit.” He runs his hands down his face. “Two fucking weeks. Two weeks of progress, lost. ”
His eyes are too bright.
“Michael?” Lee asks tensely.
Not-Michael grins lazily, hands spread, tone easy and confident, so unlike Michael’s hesitant mumbles. " Nah , Michael’s still sleeping. Nice to finally meet you two. I'm Patrick.”
“You’re… not Michael,” Steve says slowly. "Alter?"
Patrick looks amused. “Nope."
Lee narrows his eyes. "What are you, then?"
"Ooh, well… that's all kinds of complicated."
He tightens his grip around knife's handle, knuckles white. “Are you helping the Speaker's cult? Is that why you came here?”
"Ha, oh man, no . I just wanted to meet you guys. Y'know how it goes, you were close by, we were bleeding out…" He shrugs. "Oh, thanks for not letting Michael die, by the way. I mean, I figured you wouldn't, but who knows."
Steve blinks. "No problem, I... guess."
"And, uh, if you talk to Stan Fredrick... tell him we say hi, won’t you?”