Who: Other Miguel, Open Where: A viewing platform When: March 5, late afternoon Why: Contemplation? TW: Mild dissociation
Miguel had taken to wandering the station recently, rather than staying in the lab or the apartment. He made sure that he always had his phone with him - even if he wasn't up to replying to anyone, or able to (ghost hands were shocking awful for texting with), the phone could be tracked and he could be located. Not that there would be all that many people looking for him. His other self, maybe? Maria, most likely. Loki? ...his thoughts skittered away from that one.
He was currently sitting at a viewing platform. Not on one of the various types of seats, though. No, he was sitting on the floor, his back to space as he leaned against the window, legs stretched out straight in front of him. The stars looked wrong in this body with these eyes. He wasn't wearing either his contacts or his glasses, for the same reason. He was staring down at this body's left hand, resting palm-up. And there were no talons standing proud. If he felt around this mouth, there were no fangs. No spinerettes in this body's forearms. Nothing was normal, nothing felt right. Granted, Miguel's ideas of "Normal" and "Right" were very different than most, but when the best he could hope for was "almost alive"... again, his thoughts skittered off.
They came back eventually, and he was still in the same place. He wondered why he struggled with keeping this body alive. After the big group meeting, while he'd still been a ghost but after Scarlet had spoken to Maria and himself, Dan had told him about when he'd swapped bodies with Loki and had worked out how to shapeshift into different people. Miguel would have settled for being able to stay alive for longer than ten minutes. He really really wanted a cup of coffee, but didn't want to risk eating or drinking anything, when he was more than likely about to switch to decomposing yet again and then the food or drink would just screw things up.
He should get up and go back to the apartment. He knew that. He told himself that every couple of minutes. But he just stayed where he was, staring down at this body's hand and watching it decompose and reform over and over. Executive dysfunction? Probably.