Who: Jack (closed, narrative) What: Jack gets locked in a room. Where: A room at the Seattle Public Library. When: During the day before the blackout. Warnings: None
Jack had just stepped into a room at the library when the door shut and locked behind him. He hadn't pulled it closed, and when he heard the door hit the frame he turned in the dark, trying the knob.
He'd gone to the library to look over their microfiche records, see if he could find anything in the paper from the last few years on Mockingbird that he hadn't been able to dig up online. The room was dark, with only the machine and a chair inside, and it had no windows to facilitate sifting through the files. The only like came from a light table nearby, used for looking at negatives. Otherwise the room was bare, with no windows to the outside.
The knob, as he tried it, was locked. He checked around the door to be sure he hadn't simply missed a switch, but there was nothing there.
He felt panic, sudden and immediate and not for himself. There was no doubt that someone had locked him in here, and if they had locked him in what was happening outside?
He began to slam his body into the door. Over and over, again and again. When simply jamming his shoulder against it did no good, he got a running start. Then he did it again. And then again. He shattered his shoulder, let it mend. Then again.
If he'd wondered at all that someone had locked him with a purpose in mind, that doubt disappeared when no amount of force could get the door open. It barely rattled in the frame, and no one outside seemed to hear him, no matter how hard he shouted, no matter long or hard he struck the door.
Hours trying to get the door open, and then hours sitting in the dark, trying to get service on his phone, trying to contact someone on his communicator, wondering what might have happened outside while he allowed himself to be locked into a room in the library, what sort of horrors. He became sure, in those hours, that Max was dead - that he would leave the room and find that Mockingbird had followed through on her threat, and he began thinking through how many people he would have to go through to get to her, how many lives he would likely have to take to get the information he needed.
In the end, Jack rested his head against his knees, ignoring the featherlight weight of an arm around his shoulders. He was waiting. He knew he would be let out. It was only a matter of time.
The door opened, and no nefarious enemy stood in his path, just a librarian with someone else to show into the room. She seemed surprised to see him there, said something about thinking he had left, but he didn't hear her. He was pushing past her, running, and as he reached the front doors the lights in the city flickered out.