To take shelter was his first instinct. As he ran through a hurricane in Los Angeles, Mike pulled on the doors of every shop and building he saw, but none would budge open. He stood under bus stops but the rain made its way through the barrier. There was no escaping the storm.
Mike shivered and pulled his hat further down over his ears, picking up his pace as the rain followed him wherever he went.
The storm was brutal and Mike had felt like he had been wandering around aimlessly for hours at this point. Coughing and short of breath, Mike felt weak on his feet. And with no clues or direction to go, he simply walked, hoping for the best.
A sudden gust of wind and noise caused Mike to shudder as a single train car zoomed past him. He frowned, watching as it passed down the busy LA street, a ghost. He could hear the cries and saw hands reaching out towards him, as if he could do anything to save them, but the lone train car simply disappeared into sight. Even if he wanted to, Mike knew the only thing he could do was to keep walking and ignore it.
But as he walked, the sound of people crying and the rain becoming harsher, it became harder and harder to ignore.
And in the middle of the street, he saw the fires flare up and grow higher than the buildings. He saw faceless shadows miserably doing what they could to keep those fires burning, for that was their life.
Mike stared at the visions, a concentrated look on his face, before he simply had to turn away and keep walking. No matter how much he wanted to do something, anything.
As the rain picked up and followed him wherever he went, Mike quickened his pace, searching for anything. Anywhere he could go.
Micky had been watching the tv static for nearly twenty minutes at this point. He had nothing to do, no words or feelings left to say to anyone. He was finally alone.
He paid attention to the static, how the shapes twisted into faces of his family and friends, how the brainless noise turned to the sounds of their voices. How they were glad he was gone, how he was always bad. Micky simply sat on the couch and absorbed it all in.
Peter, meanwhile, stumbled through the pad, weak on his feet. Poor Peter saw the box of tools on the restroom floor, the white torn mask with it, and the blood dripping down his face, it made him sick to his stomach. Brushing more red off his forehead with a fist, Peter made his way towards Micky, trying to speak or make any sign to his friend that he was alive and there. But nothing he did could get his attention away from the tv.
So he simply sat beside Micky and cried, wanting to help him in any way possible, feeling so alone and helpless.
The pad had been glowing red since Davy had been taken in for "questioning." Everyone knew it was more than that and Micky let out a sigh, and pinched the bridge of his nose as he thought about it, but he didn't really feel anything for Davy. He knew the rules, he broke them, and now he's facing the consequences. Plain and simple, nothing more than that. No matter how bad it was, Micky simply couldn't bring himself to feel bad for his friend. He was too tired of his nonsense and antics and knew deep down the day would come that Davy was punished.
But instead of doing anything, Micky simply fixed himself a cup of coffee and sat at the tv, sitting there with an invisible Peter by his side for who knows how long before the door to the pad opened. While Peter cowarded away, Micky didn't even turn to look when he heard the noise.
"I told you," he said, keeping his eyes on the static. "He's not here. I don't know where he is."
"Who's not?" A familiar voice asked, causing Micky to double take.
Standing right there, in the middle of the pad, was Mike.
"Mike?" He asked, going to his friend, an almost anger in his voice. "What're you doing here? I mean, what are you doing here? Get out."
Mike frowned and simply looked around the pad.
"I just did," he said, rubbing his forehead, unsure of it himself. "There was a storm…and now I'm here."
"So you take shelter from a storm in Hell?" Micky scoffed. "With your life still on the line? Smart thinking there."
Peter hesitantly poked his head out above the couch, just as frightened and distraught to see Mike standing there as Micky was.
"I…" Mike frowned, looking around the pad. "I didn't come here."
"You had to," Micky said, returning his eyes to the tv. "I didn't call you, Davy didn't call you. Don't think you came here by choice."
Did I? Peter wondered, horrified at the thought that he had accidentally brought Mike here.
"I'm not…" Mike said, keeping his eyes on the glowing red frozen clock. "I'm not dreaming, am I?"
Micky simply sighed.
"What's going on?" Mike asked, no longer hiding his confusion and horror of the situation.
"Davy's gone," Micky said. "And you will be too if they find you here. You're not supposed to be in this world. You were never supposed to know…"
Micky cut himself off, frowning and looking up at Mike.
"Get out of here," he said. "Please. It's too late for us but you can still get out if you—"
"Tell me what's going on, Micky," Mike demanded. Micky only sighed and stood up, grabbing a vase off the coffee table and approaching Mike.
"I'm sorry," he said quietly. "Please forgive me."
"For what?" Mike asked, beginning to pick up on what was wrong.
"I-it's the only way I think this will work," was all he said.
Peter realized it before Mike did and tried to hold Micky back but it was no use.
"You can't be here," Micky explained, striking the vase. "I can't let them find you…"
In one quick swing, Mike was out on the ground, shattered ceramic glittering with red surrounding his head.
The next thing he knew, Mike woke up on the living room floor in a cold sweat.
