crossing_lostrp | [GAME EVENT] Night Falls On The Isle o' Snark

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game event

[GAME EVENT] Night Falls On The Isle o' Snark

Day faded away into sunset and as the last of the emergency shelters were finally put into place, dusk turned to nightfall. The sky above you is a pure beautiful midnight blue with a scattering of white, puffy clouds. Millions of stars sparkle and twinkle above you, and the moon, bright white and nearly illuminates the beach. Light glimmers off the water, and the sound of the waves lapping against the shore is rhythmic and soothing. You could almost imagine that you really were in a tropical paradise or on a beach vacation if not for the husk of the fuselage of one Oceanic Flight 815 resting across the beach, and the bodies littering the area near that piece of plane.

In the center, not far away from the shelters, a signal fire burns brightly. People have agreed to tend it in shifts throughout the night.

Food and water have been rationed, and it's enough to last you, all 48 of you, for a few days, provided that rescue comes quickly. If not, it will be foraging in the jungle and looking for water sources, but you're trying hard not to think about that now.

Right now, you're looking forward to some time to rest, perhaps sort through your belongings and talk to a few of the individuals you've bonded with – anything to feel just a little more normal.

[Tagging Everyone]

(OOC Note: ETA: Reply to this, just to set the mood with what the characters are doing. Don't worry the Snark Monster is coming . . .)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

After finishing a less than thrilling dinner of airplane food, Scott slipped off his socks and shoes and headed down to the water. The signal fire, however necessary, was ruining the magnificent view overhead. He pushed up his pant legs and waded a short distance into the surf.

The water began its slow work of burying Scott's feet with sand as he gazed at the stars. Since he'd only planned on being in Sydney for a few days, he'd only read up on the major, brighter southern hemisphere constellations. The city's light pollution had all but hidden the Southern Cross, Centaurus, and Carina. Here the stars leaped out of the darkness. Virgo had almost completely risen, and Leo's hind legs peeked over the horizon.

If Scott hadn't been so tired, he'd have tried to stay up a few hours longer until Algeiba, his father's star, rose in Leo's mane. However, Scott could barely keep his eyes open now. He was not looking forward to being prone for several hours as his body recharged.

Scott turned around to see how the others were splitting up for the night. He couldn't decide if he should go off alone, or join a group without soldiers, psychics, and WorldEx employees. Enjoying the warm land breeze, Scott quietly watched his companions settle in for the night.

Once she'd calmed down, Claire slipped out of little Sue's arms and headed back up the beach to distract herself with more work - re-packing food into rations sized portions, this time. Anything to get her mind away from the whys and wherefores of the mess her life had become.

It couldn't last forever though, so once the trays and boxes ran out she took her cold pasta with pesto (she hadn't wanted to risk the chicken dish) and sought a friendly face that wouldn't pester her with "how are you?". Charlie and Hurley were an option, but they were taking a turn by the signal fire. Dr House was.. well no, she wasn't that keen to punish herself.

Finally she noticed Sue under one of the tents, her eyes fixated on a spot closer to the makeshift infirmary, and Shannon (now sporting freshly varnished toe nails). They didn't talk much, bar a welcome, and eventually the trio just settled back and listened to the waves.

OOC: I didn't know whether Boone would come say hi, so tried to leave it open..

(OOC:Heh. Boone's on a rock, afrsaid to brave the water back to the beach in the dark.)

"My brother- step-brother, really- I haven't seen him since the crash. I figured he was just running around trying to help people. The idiot..." she looked out on the water, then to Claire. She searched the other girl's eyes, wondering whether the girl was pitying her. "He'll be fine, though. No point worrying."

She looked at her toes. Pretty. The rescue boats could only be another hour or so.

"What'll be the first thing you do, when we get back on the mainland? go back to the Sydney and be with the baby?" She didn't mention the baby's father - even in Aussieland, things must work the same. Humans are stil humans, after all.

OOC: Hmm.. next on the sick list: hypothermic Boone! Well it's possible anyway, or maybe just dehydrated.

Claire bit her lip and stared at her toes. She wasn't sure whether she wanted to tell a complete stranger about all her troubles, but then maybe she owed the other girl an explanation for her crying fit.

"Head back to Sydney, yes - after the baby's born. But the baby's being adopted. That's why I was flying over there now, because it's so close." Claire blinked moisture from her eyes. "I hope your brother's ok. have you asked after him? Tell me what he looks like, I might have seen him by the food store."

"But the baby's being adopted. That's why I was flying over there now, because it's so close."

Shannon pondered this, and wondered why the girl was giving her baby to Americans. A way of distancing herself from it? all shannon knew was that she'd do the same thing in the ciircumstances, father or not - men were useless anyways.

"I hope your brother's ok. have you asked after him? Tell me what he looks like, I might have seen him by the food store."

Shannon smiled a little. "No bother - I've had my eye on it all night. No Boone. Can;t hurt, though - A couple years older than me, short brown hair, walks like he's God's friggin' gift to humanity. If he'd seen you, though, he'd have hit on you."

She was a lot more worried than she was letting on. It felt like there was something pressing against her lungs, but she wouldn't let it show. she was stronger than that.

Claire snorted softly: she couldn't imagine anyone wanting to hit on an 8 months pregnant woman.

"Oh well, I'll keep an eye out for him in any case." She laid back against the bundled blankets and tried to pull Sue down with her. "Come on sweetheart, it's getting late. What do you say to a bedtime story?"

The little girl resisted her attempt and shook her head.

"No thanks," she said clearly. "I have too much to think about."

"Ok," Claire replied, rubbing her eyes a little and pitying the fact that Sue sounded far older than she had any right to be. The craash must have done that. "That's probably a good thing. I'm... *yawn*.. I'm pretty zonked anyway."

'Dr Pierson' spent the evening making sure that any severely injured survivors would be comfortable overnight, and that those who'd displayed signs of concussion were safe to go to sleep. Ami Jackson and Rodney McKay seemed to be under friendly supervision, which earned his nod of approval, but he resolved to check on them again before taking his turn by the signal fire.

Finally Methos turned his attention to the other Immortal. That Buzz had been irritating him all day, and he no longer saw any point in prolonging the agony.

He focused his attention, narrowing the feeling back to where it had centred previously: the small girl and young woman.. and as their eyes met across the sparks, he raised his water bottle and toasted the child who was almost certainly two millennia or more old. She nodded slowly in return, regarding him with more than a little distrust, so he shrugged and leaned back on his tree. There would be time enough for talking tomorrow.

Although Locke sat near the signal fire within arm's reach of a few other survivors, his thoughts were far away. (Strange that this crash which ended so many lives has reinvented mine,) he mused, slowly peeling the fragrant skin from the orange he'd taken from the fuselage. Sweet citrus mingled with warm, smokey air, contrasting sharply with the cool breeze at his back.

He'd overheard some of the others complaining about having to sleep outside, about the quality of the food, and other trivialities. How could they disregard the beauty of this place? Not appreciate that they could jump into the surf or run along the beach if they wished? They didn't realize how they confined themselves in small, man-made boxes for much of their lives. Perhaps it took years of involuntarily confinement to a wheelchair to understand.

Locke popped a section of orange into his mouth. (Ambrosia. The food of the gods.) He turned his eyes to the sparkling heavens above. "Thank you," he murmured.

After savoring half of the orange, Locke stood. He tossed the peel into the fire and looked around for Daisy.

Daisy sat under one of the trees in the treeline, within sight but out of earshot of the crowd. Dinner had been a real treat. It wasn't good, but it was small. Now she was enjoying the absence of chatter and the monotonous roar of the surf.

George, poor thing, seemed to find interacting with strangers a chore. She really didn't understand George sometimes. Daisy found it endlessly fascinating--all those stories, all those experiences, all those men. All those lovely men. Or rich. Or ideally, lovely and rich, and paying attention to her.

But even Daisy needed a little time alone now and then. This was one of those times. She sighed and fished another wallet out of the shoulder bag at her side. If they were going to be stuck on this island for very long, there would be more than enough unavoidable camaraderie, particularly if fresh water and soap were as limited as she feared they would be.

Daisy plucked cash from the wallet with practiced ease, then dropped the wallet onto the growing pile. The cash vanished into her own purse like a magic trick. She reached into the bag for the next wallet and discovered that it was empty. She shoveled all the wallets back into the shoulder bag, then leaned back against the tree and stretched out her legs.

Looking around, she thought, (It really is a lovely place. Beautiful white sand beach, glimmering breakers in a dark sea, vivid stars in a deep black sky. A warm breeze blowing in off the ocean, the sound of the surf. Throw in a four star hotel and attractive young men to deliver drinks to the beach and you'd have a first-class resort.

Daisy looked toward the campsite. The bonfire was brilliant against the darkness and Daisy looked away again before it ruined her night vision, but not before she saw Locke stand and look around. She wondered if he were looking for her, ambivalent about being discovered. His company was enjoyable, but she was also enjoying her solitude.

After a bit of searching Locke spotted Daisy sitting alone near the treeline. Since she seemed content and this was the first occasion he'd seen her alone, Locke reluctantly concluded that she was enjoying her solitude.

Nevertheless, a promise was a promise. He strode up to the lovely woman, handing her the peeled half-orange. "I said I'd share," he smiled. He nodded toward the signal fire. "There's plenty of room near the fire, if you're looking for some company." Then he headed back, looking forward to a good night's sleep.

Daisy took the orange. "Thank you, John," she said.

Locke turned to walk away after inviting her to join the crowd by the fire. She thought about it for a moment, but was still enjoying sitting under the tree. "Perhaps later," she said. "Good night."

Daisy pulled the orange into neat segments and popped them into her mouth one by one. It was very sweet, and juicy, and far more enjoyable than dinner had been. John really was a dear man. She was glad he'd survived the crash.

Crane finally found River, urging her towards the shelter. Now that night had fallen, the girl actually seemed spooked. He coaxed her onto the makeshift bed, making sure she had a spare pillow from the plane, and a blanket. When she wouldn't stop shivering, he handed over his suit jacket.

"They're always watching.Always. Don't run, don't sleep, don't eat.They always know. They'll find you and-" she whimpered slightly, watching the treeline in anticipation.

"River, no one is going to get you. You're with me." Crane soothed, "And look, we're surrounded by people. You'll be fine."

"Doesn't matter", River said sulkily, but she still calmed visibly. Crane noticed her eyes flicking over to the woods every so often.

With that episode out of the way, with very little incident, Crane opened his briefcase, grabbing a pad of paper and a pen. He shut the briefcase, locked it, before tying the thing to his wristwatch and using it as a pillow. It was a primitive anti-theft precaution, but he should at least know if anyone was trying to steal it. He didn't exactly trust everyone on the island.

Then, he started crunching numbers. His formula was still somewhat incomplete, and he might as well have it finished by the time he got off the island. River watched him in silence.

Or at least she did for a while.

"That's going to hurt people." She reached out, grabbing the wrist that was writing. "Don't. They'll hurt more."

Interesting. Subject has moved on to make physical contact of her own free will. File that one away for later.

And how did she know what he was working on, anyhow?

He glanced at her, idly, "Numbers aren't going to hurt anyone."

She just snatched the pen and paper from him. "It's all wrong. Miscalculations, false logic..." She started to scribble all over it in Chinese. Crane sighed. There was all his work, down the tubes.

"River, I can't read that." He told her, calmly.

"I know."

Clarice made a makeshift hammock from a strip of the escape-ramp material that was too small for a canopy and lay suspended between two trees near the main shelter, napping off and on between bouts of brooding. An airline-issue, cold chicken Cordon Bleu Hobby Kit sat uneasily in her stomach.

Food's gonna run out soon, she thought as she idly watched Dr. Crane fend off a young dark-haired girl who seemed to be fussing at him irrationally. Water will run out sooner. And I don't like our odds for being rescued before that.

In the morning, she decided, she was taking her new spyglasses and walking the beach in search of a creek-mouth. There had to be a stream around here somewhere--from all this greenery, rain must be fairly common, and water in abundance. If all else failed, they could set out vessels to catch rainfall...but she suspected that enough searching would find them something more substantial. She had nothing to hunt for food with...but she could use one of the bigger bags for gathering, and maybe improvise up a weapon.

She sighed and rolled over, staring up at the sky. Two days from now, she was due back to work. She wondered how long after that Crawford would wait before he started making phone calls. With Lecter on the loose, everyone would assume that he'd done something. Which was really ironic, because he would never have done a thing to harm her save to keep from getting captured again. She knew that with a certainty that had been bizarrely comforting when she learned of his escape.

Besides...it wasn't her he was after at this particular moment. Chilton had fled...fled the country, rumor had it. Somehow, Clarice suspected that he couldn't possibly go far enough.

"I'm having an old friend for dinner," she mumbled to herself, remembering his words in her ear at graduation, and then shivered.

A single chocolate tress had fallen in those hazel eyes, as Katherine Austen began around the sandy beach, those dark eyes cast a glance to the others. Trying to save themselves...trying to find food, and water. On the inside, she was petrified, but on the outside... well, she was still petrified. It was like an unknown place. An unknown time. The young woman had greeted so many people, and yet... had she made arrangements to get off the island or was it.. just her imagination running away with her again? She had slept for a little while, sometimes her mind did run away with her. A flashback suddenly came to her mind.

That poor bankteller, had trusted her. Jason had fucked it all up. All of it. The whole thing was an entire set up. 'I've never used a gun before.' a thought in her mind as to what she had said.

"Pathetic." Kate muttered, until she came upon a ...hammoch? Eyeing the woman who seemed to be gazing up at the stars, the brunette cleared her throat a bit, both to get attention and to clear the phlem that dangered her of losing her speech.

"Hi." a timid yet forward approach to the word. "...that's... very..." the slender woman tried to find the word for it.

"Well it's original. I wouldn't have done it." a meek smile.

Clarice looked up, and smiled a little, "Yeah, well, I'm not hurt, so I figured other people'd need a proper shelter more'n me."

She hopped out of the hammock and looked up--of course, she was somewhat shorter than the other woman. She was somewhat shorter than pretty much everyone--in fact, she'd barely squeaked past Quantico's height requirements. "Hi. I'm Clarice. Can't sleep?"

Considering that everyone's system had been drowning in adrenaline for a good part of the afternoon, it didn't surprise her. "I keep wakin' up myself," she said rather sheepishly.

"Good point." a meek smile, as the brunette looked over a moment, turning her head to see something in the distance, but turned back toward the woman.

"Kate." beginning over towards the hammoch she offered her hand, but decided against it.

"I know how that is." she turned back a moment.

"I'll be right back... I just need to .. find something." quickening her pace, the lithe woman began walking heading back toward...whatever it was she was seeing.

Everyone was settling in. Ripley had gone off and napped up a tree for a while, but now she was refreshed enough to be getting very bored. She clambered down and dropped, then wandered back to the camp proper, pausing to snatch a moth from the air and stuff it into her mouth. The wings were papery and not to her liking; she decided to stick to crabs and fish after that.

She went to the fire and stared into it, helping put logs on for a few minutes. A signal fire--she supposed it was clever enough. But she doubted it would do much of anything to help.

Beyond the hiss and crack of the fire, she heard whispers from the past: Hicks and the others arguing about who would take the long, risky journey out to the homing beacon to hand-calibrate it. "I'll go," Bishop was saying in his gentle voice, over and over.

She shook the memories off, and turned idly to one of the stacks of suitcases and bags that had been gathered together. She pulled one off the top of the stack and broke off the lock with her bare hands, tossing the twisted metal aside.

Inside were clothes sized for a young girl, maybe prepubertal, maybe just small. Most of it was surprisingly sober and mature, from what little she knew of kids' clothing. "Hm," she said--and then paused, nostrils twitching.

A bottle of some sort of oil had shattered inside the suitcase's side pocket, soaking through some of the clothes. She fished through the broken glass and came up with a sharpening-stone and a packet of rice paper. "Hm," she said again, and started digging through the clothes proper.

When her hands encountered something long and hard inside the case, wrapped in several dresses, she frowned and pulled it out. It was hard and heavy and wrapped so carefully it was somewhat tedious getting the thing free.

Finally she found herself sitting with a sheathed shortsword in her hands. The thing looked ancient, from her point of view; swords were things one found only in fairy tales in the time of the spacing guild. This one...she drew it out, and turned the blade over and over in her hand in the light from the fire. Carefully sharpened, well-tended...and with the faint scratches and nicks of real use. How very weird. Even weirder, to find it in a kid's suitcase.

She sheathed it, and fastened it to her belt. If it belonged to one of the survivors, she imagined they'd make mention of it once they caught sight of it.

Methos had dozed off for a while - a couple of hours by the look of his watch - but a shake on his shoulder from Dr House informed him that it was his turn to stand watch over their patients. Fatigue wasn't something he was unfamiliar with, so a few hours at the beginning and end of the night were fine if it meant that the misanthropic curmudgeon got an unbroken (if short) night's sleep. He'd also added the pot of Vicodin he discovered to Mr Wu's medicine bag, and the flash in House's eyes was on a par with that of Gollum close to his 'precious'. That meant at least two addicts on the beach, if he wasn't missing his mark with Charlie.

Most of the beach's residents were in the land of Nod by now, snores outnumbering whispers, so after a cursory check of his charges Methos decided to take a wander. He was well aware that many mortals hid their injuries under such circumstances, and that the best time to catch them out was in their sleep. That, and this would be an excellent chance to search for his sword case. It had been vacuum wrapped and loaded as "unusual cargo" by airport security, he knew, but stored in the same hold as all other luggage.

As such he become alarmed when he came across the dark-haired woman by the pile of suitcases, a short sword hanging from her waist. Not his own, obviously - it was neither long nor heavy enough to be an Ivanhoe - and the woman was not Immortal, but perhaps it did belong to the 'child'.. Had she found his own, as well?

The woman looked up from her search and observed him curiously.

"Good evening, ma'am," Methos bowed politely, deciding to stake his claim on any other swords that might appear from the luggage. "I didn't realise there was another aficionado of military history on these shores." He stuck out a hand. "Dr Adam Pierson, historical researcher.. and medic."

Ripley looked the man up and down. Such implacable calm to him...like a stillness at the back of his eyes. This one wouldn't scare off easy; on that alone, she liked him already.

She rose fluidly and a little too quickly, but he didn't so much as flinch at the mistake. That made her smile a little. She clasped his hand in a careful grip and shook slowly, as if she hadn't had much practice. She gave name and rank again as she had pieced it together from her fragmented memories. "Ripley. Ellen. Lieutenant First Class. I'm a pilot..." and then she chuckled, remembering that Daniel fellow's warning. "...among other things." Like killing horrible monsters. Or carrying around one's genetic memory.

"I'm not so much an aficionado of military history as...heh...one of its antiques. Peripherally, anyway. My job was mostly..." (Watching military people die of their own stupidity, or someone else's). "...getting people where they were going." She crouched down again, continuing to chat as her hands explored the luggage.

Her hand closed on something soft in the next suitcase, and she drew it out: a ragdoll with long, dark yarn curls. She stared at it...and something about it sent a pang through her. Something like deep loneliness...but more personal.

"...I was supposed to be home in time for her birthday..." she mumbled confusedly under her breath.

She let the doll drop back into the case after a moment; a tremor went through her long-fingered hand, and she balled it into a fist to stop it.

From his vantage point some distance away from Castaway Bay, Sawyer watched his fellow survivors settling down for a night of rest.

(Just like a regular old summer camp.)

Standing up, Sawyer dusted the sand from his pants and hands and made his way to the now deserted fuselage. Dr. Danny (and I still wanna know what the hell kind of a marine is a doctor?) and Jarhead had done a good job of organizing and getting all the medicine, food and useful items out of the fuselage.

(Which means they left all the stuff that they didn't think of as useful and won't remember until they need it.)

Snatching up a shoulder bag, Sawyer casually dumped out its contents - a spiral bound notebook, some makeup and a some pencils - onto the sand and kept walking. Reaching the fuselage, he ducked inside and took a moment to catch his breath.

(Man, this place is gonna start reeking to high heaven real soon.)

Steeling his nerves, he moved forward in the dark, surprised at how well the light of the moon and the bonfire illuminated the inside of the broken cabin. Stopping at the first set of seats, he reached down and snatched up the item glittering on the floor.

It was a package of cigarettes.

(Pay dirt,) Sawyer mused and plunged further into his explorations.

Even when one faced the prospect of being on rations or starving, somehow it failed to make airline food taste better. Megabyte had a particularly less than delightful meal of chicken - Claire had opened it and turned visibly green at the thought of it, but his iron stomach could handle anything - and some time spent in quiet conversation with Charlie and Hurley, he returned to the infirmary tent. Ami had secured a comfortable place right outside of the tent, and remembering Dr. Pierson/Adam's caution to wake her every few hours, he thought it would be better to stay close by.

It also gave him a pretty good vantage point to keep an eye on Daniel and Sgt. Blaise. He didn't trust the military or soldiers and he didn't like having them so close to them. Their being here was suspicious, despite Daniel's explanation that their transport craft had gone off course and crashed into the ocean. (And since when does the marine corp have soldiers with doctorates running around in the field?)

Too many questions and not enough information or answers. (Maybe tomorrow,) Megabyte thought as he stretched out on a blanket besides the comfortably sleeping Ami.

He reached out and tucked a long strand of dark hair behind her ear, smiling softly. (Well, at least we're alive.)

He rolled onto his back and watched the sky until his eyes closed.

She'd deliberately moved away from the others as they settled down for a restless night. As far as Vala was concerned it was still late afternoon.

Finding a nice clean patch of sand, she plopped down, legs spread out in front of her and leaned back, bracing herself on her elbows. For a long time she simply watched the stars, letting the rhythmic sound of the surf lull her into a state of contentment she had not felt for a very long time.

It was really a beautiful place, she mused. Vala spent very little time in beautiful places these days, and when she did, she never had the time to enjoy them. With a start, she realized hadn't really taken the time to enjoy anything since she was taken by Qetesh.

Not that she never enjoyed herself-- boy, did Vala ever enjoy herself. But there was something to be said about simply taking the time to be. Vala had not 'been' in a very long time, and, for the first time in twenty-four years, she had found a place where she could.

She giggled girlishly at that. But quickly caught herself, sending a furtive glance behind her to make sure no one was close enough to hear her. She sat up and ran her hands through the sand between her legs, picking up handfuls and letting the small granules fall into a pile.

(Maybe,) Vala thought, (Just maybe, this is the beginning of something wonderful.)

"...so then I drank the potion, said the words, and woke up at home."

"Did you say them right this time?" Walt asked.

Ash scowled, wondering why people always asked him that. "Yeah, I said 'em. Maybe not every single syllable, but basically...yeah, I said 'em."

Walt had been sitting by the fire with Ash, listening with wide eyes to Ash's adventures. His father, Michael, was nearby, seemingly paying no attention but occasionally Ash met his eyes and knew he was listening. He wasn't the only one. Several other adults were nearby, staring into the fire or up at the sky or otherwise ostensibly doing something else--but Ash knew they were listening.

"Is that the artificial hand you made?" Walt asked.

Ash held out his right hand. "Nah," he said. "That one got wrecked in Australia. This is a new one. Better materials. It's stronger and more flexible."

"How'd it get wrecked?" Walt asked.

"That's a long story--" Ash began.

Ash heard a snort and someone muttered, "Big surprise."

Ash glared for a moment, then continued. "After I got fired for killing a Deadite at S-Mart, I headed home. I was hungry, so I stopped at Jimmy Wong's Authentic Taco House--he makes a killer burrito--and when I walked in..."

Ash told his tale for the umpteenth time, holding back no detail of his misadventures, though he wasn't above exaggerating his own heroism for the benefit of any women who might be listening. Walt sat enthralled, a comic book he'd found lying forgotten in his lap. If the adults listening thought he was crazy, or a bullshit artist, or addled by too many video games, at least they were (mostly) keeping their opinions to themselves.

George was alone. Lying in the middle of the crowd of survivors of Oceanic Flight 815, she was nonetheless alone. She spoke to no one and others mostly left her alone as well. She let the sounds of surf and various conversations wash over her. One voice carried from over near the fire, spinning darkly comic tales of fighting zombies and black magic.

She'd eaten her ration of dinner when it was offered to her. It was everything she'd learned to expect of airline food on the trip to Australia, only cold. A few people had experimented with warming their microwaveable meals over the fire, but mostly without success.

Now she lay on the sand, staring up at the star filled night sky. She had seldom seen the stars back home before or after her death. When the skies over Seattle were clear light pollution washed out all but the brightest. She remembered the stars mostly from family vacations at the lake a long drive from home.

These stars were doubly unfamiliar. George wasn't sure if they were in the southern hemisphere, but they were definitely very near the equator and the constellations overhead formed no patterns that she could recognize. Eventually she tired of trying to discern patterns in the scattered stars overhead and closed her eyes.

It had been a long day. George longed for her own bed, and for another late night breakfast at Der Waffle Haus. She wondered if Rube had known she and Daisy would be marooned on an island when he handed them their tickets. Had the trip to Australia been intended as reward, and the crash on this isolated beach been unexpected--or was it a punishment for some offense they'd committed? She'd probably never know, even when she got a chance to ask Rube.

George imagined the conversation she'd have with Rube. Imagined Roxy and Mason chiming in, and Kiffany serving them coffee and pie. The drone of voices wrapped around her, merging into her imaginings, which merged seamlessly into a vivid but nonsensical dream George would only barely remember when she woke. She slept.

Stifling a yawn for the umteenth time, Scott decided that joining one of the larger psychic/WorldEx/soldier-free groups near the signal fire was his safest bet. He waded out of the surf, collected his bags, socks, and shoes, and chose a spot near the pouty blonde -- (George, I think) -- who was already sleeping. Seconds after his head hit the thin airline pillow Scott was asleep as well.

[From here: http://www.livejournal.com/community/crossing_lostrp/16958.html?thread=156734#t156734 ]

Weevil led Veronica through the small groups arund the tents, looking back at her and talking. "I was heading to Australia to visit my 'more well-off' cousins - They like having me up there, and I like getting out of Neptune for a couple weeks. Saw you in the air, bt you and Echolls seemed a bit... busy."

He shrugged. "Then, blacked out. Not exactly something you expect to happen on a plane crash, 'less you're a wuss." He stayed silent for a minute, then without looking back at her, he spoke again. "We'll look for him in the morning. He's probably around here somewhere."

(Oh, and tag Veronica)

It wasn't like I swallowing Weevil's story without any suspicion at all. I'm always wary of what I'm told.

Then again, it's all easily explainable. After all, what did I really know about Weevil? I knew he had a cousin named Chardo, but that was after the whole ordeal with the Echolls family credit cards.

Weevil and I usually don't have the whole 'Hey, how's the family?' conversation. Most of the things we talk about involve distractions of odd going-ons in Neptune.

I had tons of questions for him, but mostly I was just tired. The day had been exhausting, and now the whole discussion was stirring up the usual nagging feeling that I hadn't done enough to find Logan.

"He probably is. Logan's tougher than he looks."

I paused, letting the plane crash thing settle in. It was awkward, sharing stories like this. "Logan and I were following a lead on his mother. New information surfaced, and we were pretty sure it wasn't Trina again. We got there, only to find a dead end." And as for the crash? "I blacked out, something I was completely expecting if I ever ended up in a plane crash. Unfortunately, they had to fish me out of the water."

Well well well, little miss Mars wasn't rock steady like he'd thought. "Woulda figured you to be the type watchin' people get sucked out the back 'n just keep on goin', you know? Never figured you for the blacking out type."

A moment passed, before Weevil spoke.

"A lead, huh?" Weevil's voice changed here, no matter how he tried to keep it convincingly light and surprised. Exactly the topic he'd slip up on. It wasn't like he hadn't known she'd been in Australia, or even on the exact same flight as him - both ways. He was surprised he'd dodged her eyes both ways up. It was hard, but not impossible if she had no idea you were there. Well, he would have been surprised by this any way, he figured, so he'd go with it. "Thought you had those brats' video of her jumping? It's been a while, don't those things dry up after a few months?"

And, before she could move on to suspecting him of more than he thought she should (she was tired, so he might get away with it), "So, a deserted island. Seems like a place where everyone would keep some sota secret. A playground for you, huh?" Weevil looked back at Veronica - and winced. "Come on, I didn't mean it like that." It was hard to tell Veronica was offended until she spoke - she got that hard-edged, pissed off voice going on - but Weevil had been around her long enough to call it as he saw it. "You do like to poke around a little, everyone knows."

[Tag Veronica]

Rodney sat with his back to the fire, ignoring the laughter and derision accompanying some BS tall tale, staring at the remains of the once great airplane. He clutched his laptop to his chest and tried to figure out what it had once been. A Boeing, probably, something big like a 777 for international flight. Now it was just so much junk, broken and useless. He felt more sympathy for it at the moment than he did for his fellow castaways. Rescue was probably already on the way. There was no way the American government would let him rot here (nor Jackson and "Murphy") and they'd probably be more than happy to bring back the rest of them too.

The aircraft, on the other hand, would never leave this beach. It would lay here, forgotten, until it rusted away. It wasn't Ancient. It wouldn't last ten-thousand years or even a hundred. Like all things created by mere humans, it would fade away, lost to entropy.

Rodney held his laptop tighter, closed his eyes, and wished like hell he would wake up back on Atlantis in the morning.

Scrubbing his hands over his face, Daniel thought about how much he could really use a good cup of coffee. Not that he was likely to get one in this environment. There was something that he'd grown accustomed to drinking that tasted vaguely like coffee – if he closed his eyes and pretended he had a horrible head cold -- in his pack, but it needed water and water was on ration and reserve. And even with rationing, what they had wasn't going to last more than a day.

There were simply too many people.

He made his camp away from the signal fire, halfway between the infirmary and the fuselage. This put him downwind from the broken plane and the dead bodies (And there's the less than pleasant task that will need to be taken care of tomorrow) but he could still see both the jungle and what the survivors had taken to calling Crash Central.

Daniel turned his attention to Crash Central and was glad to see that people were settling down for the night. The injured were in the infirmary under the watchful eyes of Dr. Personality, Dr. Pierson – whom Daniel avoided at all costs simply because he was being stubborn and too proud to apologize for his earlier rude behavior – and Sun. The Korean woman was surprisingly adept at tending to the wounded and proved to be a valuable assistant to the doctors. Daniel had been surprised to discover that Sun was actually an art history student and that apparently another survivor spoke Korean so Daniel wouldn't have to be the constant translator for the Korean couple.

Claire was settling in for the night with little Sue – Daniel would have to make the effort to get to spend some time with the girl tomorrow; he knew what it was like to lose parents at such a young age – and the Barbie Doll. He really hated naming people like that, but for some reason it seemed to really fit with Shannon. She'd lost her brother – although Sayid insisted he'd seen and spoken with the man following the crash – and seemed to be in a state of shock. (So, perhaps I am being a bit too hard on her.)

Jon was joking with Charlie and Hurley down by the fire, and Ash held several people entranced with his tales of zombie slaying. (At least it isn't aliens with glowing eyes, we might have a problem then. Or not, there's always plausible deniability.)

Daniel had done his best to circulate through the camp and learn as many names and faces as was possible, but there were still a few that he hadn't met personally. There was tall, lanky man with the goatee who had been wading in the ocean but now was wandering back inland. McKay had told him that his name was Scott; also that he'd dropped McKay on his head. (Personally, I'd like to thank him for that.)

There would plenty of time for other things tomorrow.

Turning his attention mostly towards the jungle, Daniel stretched out on the sand. Sleeping in sand was nothing unfamiliar to him. No more than sleeping on the ground or on a Goa'uld ship or any of the other odd places he's slept in the last decade. Sand reminded him of Abydos, but all he needed to do was stare at the sky to know that this was nowhere near Abydos.

The jungle was alive with life and Daniel placed his P-90 within easy reach. He probably wouldn't need it, but he had learned to always be prepared for anything.

The irony of an archaeologist, who had never fired a gun before a decade ago, armed with a P-90 protecting a group of civilians was not lost on him.

Jon lounged by the fire, though he was careful to keep his back to it so as not to lose his night vision. He'd assigned himself last watch once it looked like Daniel was going to be engaging in diplomatic relations, therefore aware of whatever was going on. Blaise had informed him that his alarm was set for midnight, to which Jon had replied that Daniel had always been a night owl rather than a morning person anyway. He requested a wake-up call at 3 - he'd always hated digital watches, and his cellphone was somewhere out in the big blue - and was grateful for the sharp nod of assent.

So here he was, crash landed on a desert island with the weirdest bunch of misfits since SG1 was formed. If today had been crazy, tomorrow would be a nightmare - especially if there was no sign of a rescue. They needed to find the cockpit, he decided, if it was on the island at all - it might be out to sea. That's where the radio was though, and while it might not be working they might be able to Macgyver some kind of Mayday transmission. It'd be good to know whether the blackbox was ok too. And how the hell a wormhole had gotten sidetracked - the timing of which gave him the willies. He liked the fact that if Daniel was going to be stranded someplace, he (or at least a version of himself) was nearby.. but the coincidence? What was this, the Samoan Rectangle?

Settling back into the pile of old clothes that lay between him and the burning logs, he tried to tune out his overactive worry gland. Charlie and Hurley were sat nearby, laughing and joking, and that was good. Sleep wouldn't come easily tonight, but relaxed sounds always made things better - even Ash's zombie stories on the other side of the fire sounded, well, normal. Every so often he'd join in with a random comment or a sarcastic observation, but for the most part the boys let him alone and let him drift off into a light sleep, praying that nothing else went wrong.

Ya right! said a little corner of his mind. Kree. Kreeeee!

OOC: sorry, couldn't resist :)

Flat | Top-Level Comments Only

[GAME EVENT] Night Falls On The Isle o' Snark

(frozen comment) [Scott] Stargazing

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(frozen comment) [Methos] Monitoring patients & tracking down a potential enemy

(frozen comment) [Locke] Contemplation (tag Daisy)

(frozen comment) [Daisy] Contemplation

(frozen comment) [Locke] Contemplation

(frozen comment) [Daisy] Contemplation

(frozen comment) [Crane/River] Open to anyone who wants to join the duo

(frozen comment) [Clarice] Troubles Past and Present

(frozen comment) (Kate/Clarice) Wandering.

(frozen comment) (Kate/Clarice) Wandering.

(frozen comment) Re: (Kate/Clarice) Wandering.

(frozen comment) [Ripley] A discovery (open tag)

(frozen comment) [Methos] (open tag)

(frozen comment) [Ripley] (tag Methos, folks near bonfire)

(frozen comment) [Sawyer] Scavenger Hunt (open tag)

(frozen comment) [Megabyte/Ami] (open tag)

(frozen comment) [Vala] (opentag)

(frozen comment) [Ash] Tall Tales by Firelight

(frozen comment) [George] Alone in A Crowd

(frozen comment) [Scott] Alone in A Crowd

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(frozen comment) [Rodney] The Effects of Entropy

(frozen comment) [Daniel] (open tag)

(frozen comment) [Jon] open tag