[ not again. not again, not again, not again. he feels it, knows it far too well, lived through it too many times. maybe if he keeps his eyes closed, pinches himself hard enough, he'll wake up and it'll be gone. he'll be in his bed. except, oxford realises, after the first moment of alarm (of anger), that he's stuck between a rock and a hard place, because he's not coming here like he did before. from a job and community of people he admired and appreciated. he's coming from a prison within his own home. the memory of it becomes suddenly as sharp and clear in his head as the habitual headache that comes with a jump, but right at that moment, he stumbles from the pod and to the floor.

or quite possible against a wall. coughing and spluttering, oxford immediately rubs stasis fluid away from his eyes, blinking rapidly as he shakes his head from side to side, looking here and there, all around himself, at a picture that's familiar but not the same. it's the tranquility, all right, but not as he knows it. knew it. in the corner of his eye he spots the light; his fury dissipates into surprise, and he moves on a kind of autopilot more than anything as he searches for something to wear in the debris. soon enough, he's blinking and squinting in the sun, breathing what feels like surprisingly real, fresh air. the ship has landed — or rather, crashed. he wonders how, and why, and whether he can secretly admire whoever made it happen. he shouldn't take pleasure in it, it's very nearly malicious of him. but not quite. it's an oddly sad thing, to see her collapsed and broken like this. odder still to see her from the outside. ]

That's fantastic. [ a short, mirthless laugh bubbles out of his throat. ] Absolutely wonderful.

[ as oxford distractedly zips the jumpsuit up from his waist (bloody, bloody jumpsuits), he glances down at his chest. taylor's handiwork is still there, on his chest; the tattoo, as fresh as though it had been put upon his body just days ago. how long since he was last here? what of any of the people he once knew here, considered his friends? it's a lot to take in, and his head aches still. with a sigh, he sits himself upon the edge of the hole he can climbed through, taking a moment to catch his breath, stare across at the expansive, endless jungle before him. ]

[ his spirits aren't exactly good, but they're not quite bad either. better than on any of his many previous arrivals, strangely enough, so much that he can pretend with far more ease than normal to be a cool and composed character. he helps where he can, in finding food, materials, exploring the area. keeps himself active, to stop himself from thinking too deeply about the implications of being here again. the thought that now he wouldn't return to something better, can't long for it in the same way that he used to. he's not sure whether that's comparatively good for his health, but he'll take it. it's more comforting to feel this way than how he used to feel here. the fact that there's fresh air, ground beneath him, sky above, that helps.

his habit of being everywhere at once is becoming quite a talent. whether he's helping someone carry salvaged materials, chopping wood or putting up another tent, his capacity for activity seems ceaseless. which is why it's surprising that for once, he is dozing during the midday heat in some shade, leant up against a tree. sitting with his back against it, arms folded across his chest (bare, because it's obscenely hot and he doesn't like to sweat all over the little clothing he has to his name), looking strangely serene. whether you intend to wake him or are just passing by, he's only in the lightest of slumbers; something'll bring him back, one way or the other. ]