Mica (Move your mouse to reveal the content) Mica (open) Mica (close) Mica Methian (My-ka, Meth-I-an) Male, 27. Army Sargent. Bright displays of lights and laughter faded into blackness, when the rumbling had started. The large, tanned mass rolled in his cot as his whole world was literally being jolted, and while the lump had never considered himself a heavy sleeper, it took the might and the strength of the screaming voices to make his eyes flicker open. And as soon as they were and he came to his senses, his nerves felt like they were lit on fire. Adrenaline pumped through his veins and he rolled out of bed, landing on the floor with a thump. The rough landing on the cold, dirty ground was just enough to make him concentrate on the screams of terror. Feminine and masculine, high and low voices, all chorusing- “Bombers! It’s Them!” “Get the Machines running!” “No, just get out of here!” The screams did nothing to make the man want to get up from the ground. He shut his eyes with a grunt, running a hand hard through his hair to grip it and come to terms with reality and knowing it was not okay. His training told him this was not okay, and he needed to get his weak bum out of here before he was either slapped with a drill, or killed by whatever was bombing them. Finally, he opened his eyes once more, then realizing his own sleeping quarters were more alive than he was even in the dark hour. People rushing out of bed in barely their sleeping garments, another bouncing around on one foot to sleep a boot on, others grabbing their precious items and shoving them in a bag or their pants as they rushed out. Mica swearing lowly under his breath as someone nearly stomped on him, blinking down at him and telling him to get up in a tight, ferocious, yet fear-ladened voice. And he did, slowly sliding onto his knees, slipping his boots on and tucking the laces in. He tilted his head to glance around him again to see the others, but something else entirely caught his eyes. An explosion of light as it hit the ground, a ring of chaos having a ripple effect, like dropping a stone in the water. Except this ring was lifting up boxes, vehicles, people and flinging them around. “Oh lordy may,” he hissed, his reflective eyes shining the light right back like a cat in the dark would. He was already scrambling to his feet and rushing off, only one word was echoing in his head. A name. Reed. Where was that little chef? His heart pounding in anticipation of bad events and of worry, needing to find him, the man he had been entrusted with watching over and taking responsibility for since he brought him in. He rushed through the dark hallways, the sporadic blinking of lightblubs being the only thing that allowed the others to see, but he didn't even need it. What he did need to do though, was to get through this rushed crowd of army men and untrained civilians as he pushed to get to the kitchen. However, at a quick glance, one caught his eye. “MacDonald,” he commanded, needing his attention as he laid his arm on his shoulder, swinging him around with his momentum. “To the kitchen,” he could only offer in explanation. He pushed through the swinging doors, moving to the side for Adam to get in and squaring his legs as he glanced around. And he was hopeful for that, because another strike happened, and not far from the feel of it, as it shook the building and its very foundations. “Reed!” He called.