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[smithsgrove]

[For PSLs and whatever else.

Generally I default to writing Michael in some vague point post-Halloween II in the H20 timeline, since that’s the only timeline where he spends a substantial amount of time both conscious and free (for 20+ years!). I borrow bits and pieces from 4-6 and 2018, though, and will write for those versions of him specifically if necessary. Also, Laurie is his sister and I cannot be convinced otherwise.]

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[hateliving]

[Nothing could kickstart the creature's fight-or-flight instinct quite like the sudden stir of approaching humans. Even when it only seems like a single person, he's learned he shouldn't get complacent based on that. Mankind survives and thrives through social connection and the interdependence of close community, rarely ever does a lone individual find themself truly and completely isolated from the rest of humanity and its cruel influence. It can happen, of course. He would know. But oftentimes, an encounter with one human signals the arrival of many more after them and the trouble that inevitably follows in their wake.]

[With that in mind, he initially only considered keeping an eye out for this wanderer the same way one would want to monitor an oncoming storm- paying attention to the movement of a potential threat in the hopes that it can be better avoided while in its presence, waiting for peace to return with its passing.]

[However, he found himself quickly growing intrigued by this mystery man beyond the pragmatism of threat-assessment... What immediately set Myers apart from the rest in his mind was the deathly pallor of his face, as it stood in stark contrast to the natural tones of the surrounding wilderness so teeming with life. Much like his own. ...although, it couldn't be- or, maybe it could? Another like him...? Unlikely. But then, why else would he be retreating from civilization in such an injured state, rather than towards it, to seek shelter?]

[Tentatively trudging over to the tree he collapsed underneath, the creature stops beside Myers, falling to his knees to meet his slumped body, roughly, at eye level. From this lowered perspective, he could fully observe, up close, the river of blood cascading from his belly, the gleam of the knife, the faint hint of flesh beneath the blank eyeholes of the pale facsimile that seemed to be his face... not knowing what to make of it but feeling a palpable growing dread at the sight regardless.]

[If nothing else, one thing was certain: if no one had come to retrieve the half-dead man by this point, that help is never arriving.]

[In the face of this fact, the creature clamps an icy hand down hard on his shoulder, starting to jostle his lifeless body back to consciousness- albeit a bit more vigorously than is entirely necessary.]

[smithsgrove]

[As exhausted as he is, he is still an incredibly light sleeper. The sound of approaching footsteps begins to draw him back to consciousness, and the first brush of contact against his shoulder snaps him all the way awake.

He returns from a dreamless sleep to a world of agonizing pain and an unfamiliar hand touching his body. He reacts accordingly.

With a low, strangled sound- guttural, almost a snarl- he recoils, flailing a leg up to kick out at the other man. The wound gushes, the sudden, violent movement tearing open what little flesh that had knit itself back together again. His eyes are wide but bleary- he only registers the other man as a vague shape in the shadows of his mask, a looming danger to be dealt with. His hand grasps wildly for the knife in his pocket.

Panic is a rare emotion for him, and he doesn’t like the taste of it. Every instinct shrieks to dispose of the threat quickly, before it capitalizes on his vulnerability, but every muscle in his body feels worn down to shreds. He swallows back the dread of becoming prey and lashes out, the knife gleaming in the first rays of sunlight on the horizon. It’s a weaker blow than it should be- the stab is swift, but without as much force behind it as there should be.

It would still eviscerate a normal man, with average reflexes and average durability. For better or for worse, however, he’s not dealing with anything normal.]

[hateliving]

[The initial kick hardly carries the power or precision to provide much of a deterrent to the creature- accomplishing little else than startling him into a confused agitation, which only worsens once the blade nicks the nook of his shoulder. Although the stainless steel doesn't scratch far beyond the surface, the feeble incision is still enough to elicit a pained grunt through the creature's grit teeth.]

[Indignant at this, he firmly grips the wrist of Myers' knife hand before swiftly pinning it to the tree with a powerful lurch- throat trilling in a low strangled growl like a wildcat, jaw jutting wide with bared teeth, attempting to intimidate him into backing down to quit exacerbating the injury. His face slowly softens back to a neutral expression once he fixes his sight back on the reopened gash, gears turning in his head as to how he can stem the flow of fresh blood.]

[He remembers himself laying flat on the doctor's table where the first currents of lightning struck new life into his being- how so much of his flesh was smothered in thick strips of gauze, tightly binding his quilted skin just to keep it from falling apart at the seams. He remembers the tender touch of the blind hermit whose hands felt over his burnt and battered body in search of wounds to press with cloth dressing...]

[But even knowing what the solution is, the issue still remains of how to acquire the bandages to begin with. It's not as though he possesses the privilege of being met with politeness in polite society. He can't exactly travel into town to fetch medical equipment for Myers, or check him in to a hospital. No- they have to work with what's immediately available to them... landing on this realization, the creature's head starts to tilt and swivel around in a frantic search of anything that could make do.]

[A glance at the cut formed at his coat's shoulder, and he stops. His eyes drift back to the hand held hostage by his own. An idea comes to mind. He looks Myers dead in the eye.]

Knife. [The terse request wearily creaks from his thin lips. He punctuates the one word by pointing at it with his free hand, then flipping his wrist into a palm-up position to demonstrate a readiness to receive the weapon.]

[smithsgrove]

[The shock of having his hand pinned forces another sound out of him, a hateful growl from the back of his own throat, to match the creature’s own. He thrashes, trying to free himself. His heart hammers in his chest at a frantic, panicked frequency, his chest heaving, his mask expanding and contracting slightly with each breath he takes.

He’s less of a man in this moment and more of a caged predator, rendered helpless and unable to stand it.

The more he struggles, the more he feels the fight drain out of him. Eventually he goes still, exhausted, his indignant gaze sharply focused on the other, mistrustful and desperate to find an opening to fight back. He’s not intimidated in the slightest; merely furious to be caught out in a rare moment of weakness by someone seemingly strong enough to restrain him.

Impossibly, he tenses up further at the word “knife”. The thought of relinquishing his weapon is unthinkable- let alone to the hands of the man keeping him trapped, who could then easily tear his wound open further with his own weapon. He bares his teeth behind the mask, his eyes narrowing with disgust as he tightens his fist around the knife handle.

The creature is no doubt strong enough to pry the knife away, given his current state, but he refuses to give up and lose his only remaining protection without a fight.]

[hateliving]

[The creature doesn't fully fathom Myers' reluctance to surrender the only sharp object immediately available to either of them at the moment, but the abrupt way he allows his beckoning hand to limply fall at his side seems to signal that he has acquiesced and accepted the shape's decision regardless. After all, there is another option available, albeit a less clean-cut solution than the knife would've provided him.]

[...taking in a sharp breath, the creature starts shrugging his shoulder, struggling to remove his arm from the semi-cut coat sleeve without the assistance of another hand to simply slip it off.]

[Once the ordeal of liberating the limb from the linen is over with, he grips the coat's shoulder with his free hand and clenches his teeth on the emptied sleeve. A gurgling snarl fiercely erupts from his throat while his neck sharply lurches one way while his hand yanks away from it in the opposite direction, tugging the cloth at both ends until the sleeve is rendered completely rended from the shoulder's stitches- resulting in there now being a long strip of fabric dangling freely between the creature's grit teeth.]

[The creature then proceeds to pluck the length of shoddily severed sleeve from his mouth and rest it down on Michael's open wound as a clumsily improvised bandage- removing his other hand from Myers' wrist with some slight hesitance so he can better knead the makeshift dressing with both knuckles. Remaining cautious in an attempt to apply a gentle pressure to the area, the creature continuously glances between his own hands and the shape's face, trying to gauge if the energy of this encounter has improved or if he should expect to be attacked again.]

[smithsgrove]

[The moment the creature's shoulder begins to move, he stills, suddenly uncertain. He can't quite tell what the stranger is trying to do at first; while it doesn't look like an aggressive gesture, he remains cautious.

The more the creature struggles with the sleeve, the more his panic fades into mild confusion, then curiosity. He keeps his grip tight on his knife's handle, but the tension slowly bleeds out of him- not fully, but enough that he no longer seems poised to lash out at any motion towards him. For the first time since he was rudely awoken, Michael Myers' thoughts are no longer completely consumed with the desire to fight back.

Michael tips his head slightly to one side as the sleeve finally gives, the point of the action finally becoming clear to him. Despite this, he flinches slightly at the cloth pressing against his skin; not out of pain, but out of unease with being touched. Still, he allows it. His attention doesn't waver from the creature's hand, watching for any suspicious activity, but he's no longer attempting to force the creature away.

The sudden loss of pressure against his wrist is a surprise; Michael considers his options, eventually electing to keep his hand raised. He adjusts his grip on the knife handle, now pointing it downward towards the creature. One wrong movement, and he'll plunge it down into the creature's body. For now, though, it simply hangs there like an unspoken threat.

As the creature works, Michael slowly calms to the point of actually examining the stranger, quietly cataloguing his appearance- the ghostly pallor to his skin, the occasional scars and sores marking his flesh... and the two large bolts at either side of his neck. For a long moment, Michael stares at these, trying and failing to decipher their purpose. Then, impulsively, he reaches out with his free hand, intent on touching one.]