( The world is a bleary place, drugged up and disorienting — sadly, a feeling Will is intimately familiar with. Being forced into chemical obedience is familiar as well, although that part is still coming back to him in bits and pieces. Snapshots of time spent blacked out, disassociated.

He is allowed to talk, though. He sounds a little breathless when he turns his attention to somebody — be it his neighbor or perhaps one of the older Displaced that showed up to rescue them. )

I don't... I don't know where I am. I can't remember how I got here. I don't know where I am.

( The subtle wavering rasp of distress weighs heavy on his measured words like a cloak. Restrained though he may be, careful and quiet and deliberate in his speech and his movements, he's practically radiating anxiety. It's in the bob of his throat, it's in the shape of his eyes, it's in his posture. )

( Once his mind is his own again he has the chance to process the absolutely overwhelming onslaught of information passed onto him via mental PDF, bar patron, or kindly experienced Displaced. It's absolutely unbelievable, he still doubts his own sanity a little, but present inevitably begins to mingle with (very, very recent) past. He'd been in prison before he woke up here.

Specifically, he'd been in Baltimore State Hospital for the Criminally Insane. Hands wrapped around the bars, the feeling of being suddenly caged - physically and metaphorically, the latter of which having everything to do with the elaborate frame-job that landed him there. He was only just coming to terms with the fact that he might be there for the rest of his life. Astoundingly, being kept against his will in an underground bunker isn't playing nice with his freshly induced trauma.

He'll have a hand wrapped too tightly around a glass of whiskey that he isn't actually drinking, and he'll level a question at the first person who seems to have any air of authority. )

I'm sorry, how- how long exactly are we being held captive?

( Will can be found:
→ sitting on a safehouse bed, staring vacantly out at seemingly nothing for a disconcertingly long period of time
→ cleaning the spoiled food out of the safehouse refrigerator
→ intently studying a mural or religious shrine dedicated to the Displaced once released
→ wildcard me )