Blood.<br/><br/>Not clean blood. Not blood in a vial, or dripping from a cut. Not blood welling under stitches, or from an incision. Not medical blood, murder blood. Viscera. Gore. Brown rust-colored spatters where the blood just bubbled out from God knows who many cuts and then just sat there for God knows how long...<br/><br/>And that<span style="font-style: italic">mask</span>...<br/><br/>Michael realized he'd stopped breathing a split second after the redhead asked him if he was alright--he only caught the tail end of what she said, but he knew the tone. He took a single ragged breath as the man snapped his fingers in front of Michael's face before he swatted the ex-soldier's hand away sharply, a flash of irritation in his eyes as he tried to pull himself together. He seemed to animate, his body almost shuddering back to life.<br/><br/>"Fuck." He said it under his breath, letting out the stale taste of rust and pulling in whatever mildew or malaise filled this damn house. Looking around, he forced himself to get a grip. It was just a study. No gurney, no linoleum, no bad Jackson Pollock, Child Surgeon imitation of an operation...<br/><br/>No blood.<br/><br/>No blood?<br/><br/>"Fuck." He repeated again, sliding his hand up over his face and letting his fingers pull through his hair. Alright. Back and operational. Recover, so everyone else moves the hell on. "I'm fine." He asserted, looking between them and even pulling off a smile that faded away. "Just thought I saw something. Nerves, or whatever. Nothing major." Stepping into the room and out of the hallway, his eyes scanned the study, slipping over the paintings and books to hit...<br/><br/>A phone.<br/><br/>Phone could mean power of some kind at least, or some kind of wiring. It was something, at least, and if they were exceptionally lucky it would work.<br/><br/>Even as he thought it, though, he was rephrasing it, rethinking. This wasn't about being lucky. The phone wasn't going to work for the same reason the windows weren't going to work. The line would be dead, he'd try and trace where the cord went and it would be cut, or go into the floor and head nowhere, or some bullshit like that.<br/><br/>Or someone would answer.<br/><br/>He wasn't sure that wouldn't be worse.<br/><br/>"No food in here." He said slowly, responding to Jack so they knew he was at least still with them as he stepped into the room proper, slowly making his way towards the desk. Drawers, the clock... the phone... Now he was on edge, it was harder to keep going. Paranoia was his own worst enemy, and he just had to stop thinking about it or he wouldn't be able to do anything and he'd be paralyzed just like those losers in the other room. At the other side of the desk now, he paused and offered the redhead a weak smile--seems she had a similar idea while he'd been getting himself back together.<br/><br/>"It won't be that easy, but you never know. I'll check if you won't."<br/><br/>Caught between seeming chicken and sucking it up and doing it, he decided he'd at least give her the chance. Someone should, he figured... but fuck. If he was going to do it, he needed a minute.