The Crash Site

[blindandlost]

It doesn't matter who you are. It doesn't matter how you were travelling. All that matters is the Island, and the Island wants you. All are drawn to the same stretch of shoreline; your plane suddenly loses power and drops from the sky to crash into the sand. Your boat runs aground. Your helicopter plows a deep furrow until the blades tangle and catch in the thick growth of the jungle.

However it happened, now you're here. You belong to the Island. There might be something salvageable in the debris, but no matter what you find, no matter who is with you, one thing is certain:

You are lost.

Comments

[awfulsentimetal]

All systems online.

Sunlight flickered through splintered cracks in the crate. A dizzying, confusing stream of information was pouring from his sensors. The world was upside-down. A powerful wave of heat was battering him. What was happening? How had it happened? The alarms began to resolve into digestible information: it was The Spine that was upside-down. The world had not flipped on its axis.

And it wasn't the sun causing the kaleidoscopic light pouring through the cracks in the battered crate--it was fire.

The side of the crate shattered outward around The Spine's jabbing elbow. He punched and kicked his way from the wreckage, found his feet in the damp sand. His crate had been thrown from the belly of the plane as it ripped apart. Much of what remained was burning, filling the air with greasy, black, and no doubt acrid smoke that made it difficult to make sense of what he was seeing.

There were bodies.

There were bodies.

The Spine shuddered into action, hurrying towards the wreckage as quickly as he could and calling for his family and friends. He'd survived. Surely they had too. He had to believe they had.

[tomorrowsyesterday]

The hard part was supposed to be over. On the plane, the robots safely aboard, packed comfortably into their crates. A hour or two left to nap before they landed and the robot-wrangling began anew.

At least it was a non-stop flight this time.

The first thing Paige became aware of as she started to stir was just how hot it was, the low hum of the plane's engines replaced by deafening whining. She shifted, but when she turned her head to try and see where she was, her vision swam, nearly passing out from the nauseating wave of vertigo.

What was going on?

It wasn't until she lifted a hand to brush hair out of her vision and her fingers came away red that fear started to coil it's way into her strangely out-of-it detached state. And finding herself trapped, certainly didn't help. She took it slow, twisting so she could lean on one arm and lift her head, trying to get some stock of where they were, squinting against the bright sunlight reflecting off of the sand. Debris everywhere, twisted shreds of metal still bearing the cheerful paint job of the downed plane, luggage, people running across the sand, some screaming or crying, others calling for lost companions, like one stranger in a sweater-vest that nearly tripped over a shattered crate in his haste to search.

The crate that Paige had helped settle a particular robot in before the flight while teasing about adding another line to the instructions painted on the wood. 'HANDLE DELICATELY- SHE'S A LADY.'

"R-Rabbit!" Not nearly as loud a call as she'd like in the situation, but with her throat and mouth feeling so dried out from the heat, she was just grateful that calling out was an option.

[parasitus]

[On the sand sits a woman. She's a bit strange in countenance-- oddly-cropped hair, vivid red lips contrasting sharply against her dark skin, her clothing formal but marked with bold black-on-white stripes. Red blood stains her clothing in places, gashes inflicted during the crash of the jet that had been transporting her prior to its untimely demise, but she seems to have emerged without any major injuries.

Her lipstick is smudged, and, honestly, she looks like she's about ready to cry.


A gun sits beside her on the sand, a heavy revolver.


Well? Do you approach her?]

sorry if I'm rusty wehhh

[sagittaluminis]

[A young girl has washed up on the beach, clinging to a piece of wood-- the nearest thing to her that would float after the accident had occurred. Her clothing-- a school uniform-- is soaked through and rumpled, and she seems to have fainted at some point.

The waves push her gently towards shore, her small hands scraped and splintered from clinging so desperately to the wood... and about to let go and let her sink beneath the water.

Uh-oh.]

[doctoral_bird]

[ What was that off in the distance, on the horizon of these churning waves and deep blue sea? It almost looked like someone had forgotten a toy bird in a small toy boat of in the distance amidst all of this panic and mayhem.

Over the course of a few minutes, the figure will slowly drift closer to the shore, brought in with a firm stillness that gave the man an appearance of some sort of strange floating mannequin rather than a plague doctor.

In reality, Malkus was just trying his best to not burn to death under the smouldering heat of this tropical HELL! His tiny boat offered little relief from the heat as it was quickly rendered useless the moment the waves pushed it ashore. He was...

Shipwrecked Lost. ]

It is hot. How in hell's flames did-...

[ He tried to remember how the resident of a land locked city ended up on a tiny fishing boat with just his plague doctor garb and a bone fishing harpoon but... well. Oh jeez, it seems there are others around. ]

Aye, hello? Is this a coast of Trasen? Hot. Hot. Hot....

[greeterings]

[The thing about working late into the night with more caffeine in your system than food was that once your body finally gave out and fell asleep, the resulting dreams were really, really weird. They usually involved more rolling fields and giant alien cows than tropical beaches, and the horrific plane crash was a gruesome new addition, but Peter Walter the Sixth assumed that the whole thing was a subconscious response to overworking and stress, and possibly too many late-night action movies. The plane was probably a metaphor for that small mountain of paperwork that he hadn't gotten around to sorting yet.

... Come to think of it, his dreams weren't usually realistic enough to include waves lapping at his bare feet, or the textured, gritty feeling of sand against his jaw. He frowned underneath the mask and rolled onto his back, staring up at the sky and absently dusting away some sand. This was getting weird, it was definitely time to wake up.]

Okay... three, two, one, awake!

... Awake!

[...If he kept trying, it would eventually work, right?]