The exhaustion peels back from his mind in layers, snaking its tendrils back into itself, and allowing his consciousness to float back to the surface of a sedated world. Jack's eyes flicker open, close, then open again, still drawn to shut by an uncanny fatigue that creeps through his bones. His injuries don't hurt but his neck does and when he twitches his toes he can't feel his left leg. He's lying on something hard, cold, and damp. Tiles or linoleum. Something like that. The air smells musty with a hint of a chemical tang. Above him is the metal underbelly of some sort of table with hydraulic legs that could lift it or drop it. Looking around, he sees several drains interspersed across the floor. The room is lit by several fluorescent lights on a sagging ceiling that has, in places, dropped to litter the floor with ceiling panels. The hiss of his pocket radio plays in his ears. His shotgun is nowhere in reach but he still does have his switchblade at least. Reaching into his pockets, he can feel the warm edge of the small flashlight.
