Mary didn't know where she was. It was a problem. This wasn't the first time it had ever happened to her, not by any means, but it was always a really disconcerting experience. One of the others, not the worst one, had been holding on for a long time now and Mary hadn't been able to take control until, suddenly, she woke and she was her again. The one time she wasn't trying to have the body it was hers, but she didn't really want it when she woke up on a soiled mattress in a dingy apartment next to some man she didn't recognize. That happened a lot, too, especially when the one who called herself Typhoid was in charge of the head space.
Embarrassed, confused and completely lost, Mary slipped out of the flat and onto a street that was, clearly, in New York but not anywhere she actually recognized. She tried to stop someone for directions on the street but the man turned out to have fangs a purple face and that wasn't something she could handle in her current emotional state (that was the term the doctors always used, emotional state, mental state, dysphoric, fugue- too much).
Feeling the voices clamoring and the Typhoid clawing for control she stumbled off the street and into what was, it became quickly apparent, a bar. This wasn't the kind of place she wanted to be but then, she was barely aware of who she was just now and as far as she knew, out of the prison, all of the people that made up Mary Walker had no real place to be anymore. A bar was a good as a prison cell. She sat down at the bar and asked for a glass of water, which the man provided with a frown but she couldn't order anything else, she didn't think she had any money. She didn't know.