<hr/><div class="floatleft">(http://img.photobucket.com/albums/v140/Lockepick/Character%20Pictures/6e6c4fa8-8c63-426d-8be2-dff93c9e04cd_zps0d60e44c.jpg)</div><strong>Name</strong>:<em>Hospital Corpsman Third Class</em><span class="bbc_size" style="font-size: 12pt;">James Endast</span><br/><strong>Location</strong>: HOLY FUCKING SHIT<br/><strong>Time</strong>: Hard to tell.<br/><strong>Tagged</strong>: Entry Posts<br/><hr/><br/>James stumbled to the ground with the first set of more severe turbulence. He looked around the room frantically, occasionally looking back at the speaker system, waiting for orders on how the hell somebody is supposed to prepare for the shaking around. The more serious shudder that leaves James free floating for a moment for landing hard against the metal floor on a shoulder. The blow was shocking, but still he narrowed his eyes to look for some way to secure himself. He moved over shakily to grab the pillow off the bed before gripping one of the metal support beams, using the pillow to keep him from a shake making him crack his skull against it. The warning told him that at least the pilot wasn't dead; at least somebody was trying to land this thing still.<br/><br/>The comfort was short lived, that shriek making every muscle in James' body respond in a primal way. Every muscle tightening up and every hair on his body standing on edge. His eyes darted around to see what the cause of the sound was, and how it was going to attack him. The heat was something he wouldn't even process until later, too busy looking around for a more tangible threat. As the floor was no longer there to support him, his hands gripped the slick support beam. The force of the wind under him were simply too much, and James' fingers couldn't keep purchase on the beam, falling down into the open air. The cold, the noise, the sight of the plane growing smaller above him as he fell from the sky simply couldn't be processed, shock taking a moment to process before his body could pump enough adrenaline into him to give him back his facilities.<br/><br/>He flailed at the air around him before managing to turn himself around so he was facing the ground, his arms and legs sagging up behind him as he careened towards the ground. It was difficult to breath, with the air flying past him, and what little air he got was icy cold. It was a combination of sick morbidity and survival instincts that made him look to the ground, trying to steer his body to hopefully land in something soft versus the jagged ice his brain was already assuming.