[h3][color=#90adb1]Marcus Bradley[/color][/h3] [sup]Location: Cafeteria // Personal Room[/sup][hr]

As soon as the voice over the intercom suggested heading to bed, Marcus was on his feet. He freely admitted he was a bit tired so there wasn't much inward debate against what he should do. Standing up from his tray, he made eye contact with someone in a bio-hazard suit and they nodded at him-- an unspoken conversation-- so he left his tray on the table. As he began walking from the cafeteria, Marcus eyed the others briefly with a look over his shoulder. Ah-- he was the first one out, it seemed-- and looking down the hall ahead of him confirmed this. It made him briefly wonder if he would be the first to move when told to do so all the time. With a light shrug, Marcus walked down the hallway, back to where he remembered his name was on the wall.

When he entered the room, he let out a deep sigh, then locked as many locks on the door as he could. Thing was, Marcus never felt safe while alone unless he had a rifle or a baseball bat within reach. With this on his mind, he could already foresee the difficulty sleeping to come. The lady on the intercom had already laid out a wake up schedule so, he figured the rest of the time they would probably be on a schedule, which was reasonable enough for him-- this meant he could figure out how to tire himself properly before bedtime. Right now? He hadn't plowed enough, pitched enough hay, chased enough goats, or rode the tractor nearly enough to be properly tired. Then there was the fact that the room was so... [i]processed[/i]. Pressed and scented, straightened out and brand new, all words to describe the general feel of the room and, the more Marcus looked around at the "warm welcome", the more he felt uncomfortable. 

Houses and rooms didn't look or smell like this, hotels did, and in hotels you planned on leaving too soon to break everything in. Maybe that was the point of all this fanciness? It wasn't meant to welcome and keep you but, it was simply meant to welcome you to stay for a while. Shaking his head, Marcus took his shoes off at the door, then walked further into the room feeling somewhat anxious. Everything was so clean and neat that Marcus knew he'd never be able to relax in here, not truly. Even when he sat on the bed he didn't feel as if he could get comfortable. Yep. That was it. Marcus knew very well in this moment-- as if he didn't already know-- that he didn't belong here. Rubbing his face with his calloused hands, Marcus found himself wishing very hard he were simply back home. Mentally, he began making vows and promises to himself-- he was going to do anything it took to get out of this place as soon as possible. 

This was not his home, they were not his friends, and he did not belong here.

Over and over the phrase repeated in his mind as he tossed and turned on the bed. Hours passed because he felt them pass. Eventually, Marcus found himself out of bed, walking around the room anxiously, trying his hardest to silence the worries writhing about in his mind-- the theories and foolishness-- but nothing seemed to help. All night he paced about, sat down, tried to sleep, rolled around, got back up-- a cycle of sleepless anxiety that didn't give hint it was going to release him. Well. At least he would have a phone call home in the morning. 

The morning.
That was going to be here in less than five hours, he figured.