RE: Vertigo
Jackson walked to the nearest busy street from the motel to hail a cab; it was early morning, so finding a vacant one wasn't difficult, though the driver gave him a visible once-over when she pulled up to the sidewalk, clearly judging whether or not it was worth the fare to take in someone who looked as though he had just come back from war or a mental hospital.
Thankfully his frightening appearance was enough to put her off of any extensive conversation beyond where he wanted to go, though she would glance back at him through the rearview mirror from time to time, clearly curious but unwilling to ask any questions, lest she get an answer she wouldn't like.
Any other time, he would have asked to be dropped off a block away from his destination, but he knew circumstances were dire enough; he had her take him nearly all the way there, a short apartment complex in one of the harder areas of the city - money had never been an issue for him, he could easily afford a better location, but he had chosen the location for several reasons. For one, the location itself was within the red light district - not something Jackson was interested in, of course - but the proximity to prostitutes and, by default, drug dealers, had given the area a bad reputation. Usually this would be considered a bad thing, but in reality, said reputation deterred people from doing anything stupid like breaking and entering while simultaneously bringing the rent down to poverty-level, which was ideal for a place Jackson used primarily as storage. The building itself was old but well-maintained, and though he had never been concerned about his ability to defend himself, the area's bad image had ironically made it one of the safest spots to hide questionable materials.
Jackson shouldered the door open; the hinges had always stuck a little but gave way under his insistence. He was greeted by what, for him, was a typical home, though for anyone else would be horrifyingly empty - to say the place was sparsely furnished would be an understatement, as the entire place had only the features it had intially come with in the kitchen, a single chair in the sitting room, and a bed in the room down the hall. Otherwise, there seemed to be nothing that indicated the place had ever seen human life.
He headed down the hall into the bedroom, moving to a side table and removing a key that had been taped to the underside of it; he used it to open the padlock that kept the closet shut before he slid the door aside. He immediately began unbuttoning his still-bloodstained shirt, discarding it in exchange for another - dark blue button-up, nothing to write home about - and packed the remaining clothes into a carrying bag.
An enormous metal container at the base of the closet was his next goal, though he had to undo two combination locks to open it; it gave him access to the materials that had ultimately been the purpose of his travel there, one of which included a nylon roll of knives - he extracted one, a trench knife that was much older than he was, but maintained its usefulness - and tested the blade, finding it duller than he would have liked. He pocketed a whetstone with a mental note to give some attention to the weapons.
Amongst other things, he took money, a few cards, and a back-up passport; his lifestyle had afforded him with enough identities to travel anywhere he needed to, though he typically preferred to use his real one - it kept things less complicated, if he was careful.
Rising from where he had been kneeling, Jackson had to freeze for a moment, his hand on the closet as his chest made a violent protest to what it had deemed excessive movement; pain went through every part of him, staggering him before he forced himself completely upright and locked everything again. He would be stupid not to be aware of the reality of his situation; physically, he was a mess, and while he was more capable of dealing with pain than most people, reality deemed that he would be in pain for a long time - more, if he didn't give himself time to heal. It was the same argument Lisa had been using, and it was rational.
But as far as Jackson was concerned, the argument was only rational up to a point - their circumstances were different, they were in a scenario where inactivity meant death, and idling in a motel, completely defenseless, was not something Jackson considered a valid resolution. Eventually they would have to move again, and he wanted said movement to happen only when they were fully prepared for it.
He didn't linger in the apartment for long, there was no reason to.
He made it as far as the next busy intersection before the vertigo hit him again and he was forced to sit on the curb to stop himself from hitting it head-first; he felt as though his body was on a timer and each time he pushed himself a little more, the amount of time he got out of it would lessen - but it didn't matter. It would be enough.
It took a little longer to hail a cab, but only because it took a while to get his balance back enough that he was sure he could stand.
When he arrived back at the motel, nearly four hours had passed; he put his hand on the doorframe to steady himself, taking a breath before he unlocked the door and stepped back in.
A quick scan told him Lisa wasn't on the bed, or in the bathroom; a glance to the right, however, and he found her on the loveseat, asleep with part of the curtain over her head - she had been watching for him.
As silently as possible, he moved across the room and put the bags aside.
