castadrift | game start!

Entry tags:

alfred,
drake

game start!

This...is not good.

Alfred is almost certain he's in some sort of shock as he sits up and feels sand beneath his fingers. What happened? The plane crashed, he somehow managed to fail to die, then obviously there was some space in time that his memories are refusing to fill in- then...what, exactly?

Then the shore, apparently.

At least his carry-on is still with him, he notices blearily. It's clasped so tight in his left hand it feels odd to loosen his grip. Shaking the last bits of unconsciousness off he stands cautiously, trying to check to see if anything's broken. When his body seems fine he wades out into the water, wondering what he should do. Call for help? Check for rescuers? Swim out to the plane to help any trapped survivors? His insides shiver at that last part. The thought of swimming out to a plane full of bodies to rescue anyone trapped inside in an air bubble or whatever only to be trapped inside himself with all the bloated cadavers makes him want to retch.If anyone's still alive and trapped inside- well. They'd probably die before he found them anyway. He can't even see the plane any more; not from here.

What he can see, drawn towards the shore on a current, is a small but recognisable green first aid package. He intercepts it and wades back to the shoreline, hooking his carry-on as he does so.

"Hello?" Perhaps he's not the only one here. Hopefully he's not the only one here. God, he does not have the mental strength of Tom Hanks. It'll take more than a volleyball with a face painted on it to keep him sane. "Please tell me I'm not the only one to survive. Hello? I really wouldn't be able to forgive any of you if you all buggered off and died on the plane."

He's doing his best to keep his voice calm, but a few notes of panic still shine through.

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The sound of humanity was harsh, and it broke through the backdrop that Drake had reluctantly, numbly become accustomed to. He'd been sat motionless for what felt like just a few minutes, but the stiffness that pervaded his limbs suggested it had, in reality, been much longer. He'd been staring at the ocean, thinking about the countless times he'd dreamed of being enveloped by water, imagined the wet, desperate suffocation the entrapment brought with it. As a child he'd been convinced it was a premonition of something. Evidently he'd been right all along.

Drake's stomach heaved, and had he not already brought up everything he'd ever eaten in his life, he would've been back on his knees. As it was, a shuddered, frozen retch was all he could manage, and then he had the voice to focus on. Clumsily he clambered to his feet, holding his shoes by their laces in one hand. No point in wearing them on the beach. Picking up the bag he'd brought as carry-on, he spared a thought for the vanity that had lead him towards buying the thing in the first place. You'll never need anything like that, his mother had said when he'd picked it up, and now, well, he'd never see what she'd have to say now.

Towards the voice he went, a little weak and a lot bemused. "Not the only one," he rasped. A mixture of salt and bile had ruined his vocal chords, but there wasn't much to be done about it here. His mouthwash was buried somewhere in the middle of the ocean. He glanced at the island behind them. This was just condemnation to a slower death, really. They hadn't been saved, it was just a reprieve. His bag hit the sand with a dull thud. "You alright?"

Oh, that was good. Alfred hurried towards the other human figure, feet slipping on the sand. He should really have taken off his shoes, but how did he know this sand wasn't filled with parasites and worms? Or razer sharp rocks? Best put up with slight discomfort rather than encounter something worse.

"Yes," Alfred dropped his carry-on at his feet as he got closer, running a hand through his hair and dislodging sand. At least, he'll allow, it's warmer than England. His clothes are stiff with salt but they are dry and he's not yet shivering. "You? You don't look all that well."

If his Wilson is a shivery, weak looking teen...then at least it's human contact, Alfred supposes doubtfully. He opens his mouth to suggest the boy drinks something, then shuts it again. "Water. I think that's- aren't we supposed to locate some before anything else? If we're trapped away from civilisaion, I mean."

His voice trails off into quiet at that thought. He shields his eyes from the sun and looks over the ocean. Are they far from civilisation? Right now, it feels like they're a million miles away.

Drake thought about saying that he'd had more than enough water for the rest of his life, but held his tongue. Salted water encrusted every inch of him, and his skin crawled with filth both real and imagined. He supposed it was realistic to look 'not that well' when one had been through a plane accident. It was a marvel they were both in one piece. "Yes," he answered. "Swallowed too much salt, that's all."

Following the man's lead, the youth swiveled to look in the opposite direction. Trees lined the horizon, and from what he could tell that was all the landstrip held. They'd better hope it was a big island, he thought. If it wasn't, the chances of there being any fresh water at all were slim to none. That many trees, though... he desperately tried to think back to all the summer camps he'd been sent to when he was younger. He'd never particularly paid attention to all the rot about finding food and survival in the wilderness. A child of urban luxuries, Drake hadn't thought any of it necessary. Well, there was egg on his face now. Anything could be hidden in those trees. Wait. Trees. They had to have fresh water to survive, didn't they?

"Maybe somewhere in there," he said, vaguely, doubtfully, gesturing with his off-hand. "A pond or something."

Alfred looked dubiously towards the edge of the forest, then nodded. "At the very least, there'll be shade."

Shade and shelter. Alfred rummaged through his memories to try and recall old scouting trips. Most of them had finished prematurely with the entire site being washed out, and those that hadn't- well, it'd been fifteen, twenty years since he'd last been camping. Hopefully he'd remember enough to get some sort of shelter built. The heat was alright now, but it would probably fall during the night, if they weren't drowned by tropical rains.

-Ah, there was a point. If they found containers they might be able to catch fresh rainwater. Right, that thought cheered him up slightly.

"We need to work out a way to keep ourselves from getting lost when we go in," he decided as he stepped towards the treeline, then paused, pointing up at the leaves hesitantly. "If those are palm trees, we might not have to go too far for water."

If? Drake lifted his eyes upwards, already feeling his customary equilibrium returning now that he was in the company of another human being. It helped that this guy was older, although Drake didn't know why; he didn't seem to know any more than Drake did about what to do next. He seemed to be burgeoning on leadership thought processes though, which the befuddled American thought would be the better for him. While the man talked, therefore, Drake concentrated on reconstructing his thoughts into order, gradually pulling together a familiar mental image: a grey hallway built of stone, populated by a wooden bench against one wall. The walls were smooth, without crack or flaw or flaking mortar. A single door stood closed at one end, safely sealed.

Was he still talking? Thinking out loud, perhaps. Turning his vision outward, Drake glanced this way and that for potential markers. A glint of green from the Englishman's belongings. "Does that first aid kit have a knife or scissors in it?"

"Hm," it'd be a good idea to actually look through the kit now, wouldn't it? For all he knew, it contained a bomb. Crouching down in the sand, Alfred opened it up and began to glance through its contents. "There's a scalpel, but we should probably keep that in the pack. Don't want to have to use it in future to cut open someone's leg or something after we've been using it to cut trees. Germs and the like."

Spotting something that looked familiar from his scouting days, he thrust his hand into the pack with a look of triumph and a muttered "a-ha."

He held it up to the boy could see the red casing with the white cross. "Swiss army knife."

Satisfied, Drake kept his mouth shut and nodded. The guy just thought aloud. Some people did that. Now that he knew it, he could ignore it and focus only on the useful things he said. He took his eyes away and looked back at the trees. He reshouldered the rucksack, and barely avoided a cringe as the crusted salt on his clothing grit at his skin. The sooner he could find something to bathe in, the better.

He threw his shoes down on the ground, brushing the sole of each foot off on his shin before putting them back on. It wasn't perfect, and he could feel grains of sand between his toes. He'd get used to it, but the shoes probably wouldn't. Paul Smith would weep if he could see the state of them. That done, he set off towards the trees, assuming the Brit would follow. "Which way first?"

"First?" Where would water be? Trees needed water to grow. So did other plants. "I think we should look for other plants. Plants need water. Animals too, but if we're crashing around in there we might not spot any. Plants might be our best plan."

It's not exactly a solid idea, but he's sure it has a decent base. Well, sort of sure. His sureness seems to drop a percentage every time he thinks about it deeply, but the important thing is they have some sort of plan. "Further in. That way, then," he points further into the trees ahead. "We'll need to make a fire too, so grab any dry twigs you see."

They'll need something to gather water up too, he remembers, so they can boil it. But isn't the ocean filled with plastic trash? Hopefully some bucket from a kid's beach playset will wash up.

If nothing else, they can use a shoe. Dry twigs? Making a fire? Drake is relieved he knows how to control his expression. Reality is making a slow, torturous process of coming home to roost, and its by the little things that it comes. He doesn't want to think about whether it'll be cold overnight, or whether there'll be mosquitoes on the island. He hasn't checked inside his rucksack properly, but he's relatively sure he packed that in his main suitcase. Of that, naturally, there is no sign. Maybe they should be looking for a cave, not twigs. Water first. There has to be water somewhere.

Absently, he sets his mind to following the lines of the bench he's constructed in his thoughts. It's a stabilising process, and before Drake knows it, he's picked up a stick. It's a healthily sized stick, and somewhere in his dim and distant memory he recalls that if they're too big initially they won't burn. While his fellow's back is turned, he attempts to break it, but fails. Oh well. It can be added to the fire later. Another, smaller set of twigs goes into his hands, and Drake lets the other guy worry about marking off trees. He'll likely remember the way anyway. Should he be making small talk? "Any idea where we are?" The in-route flight planner had been available, but Drake and his friends hadn't been too interested in watching it.

"Between LA and Sydney," Alfred says, absent-mindedly. That's all he knows. "The Pacific ocean," somewhere. There are groups of islands close to Australia, aren't there? "Probably closer to Australia than LA, but I'm not sure."

He's never had cause to use geography outside of school and his lack of knowledge is...frustrating. Marking every third tree with a conspicuous 'A', he shakes his head. "Bloody hell." Imagine if they're only a few miles from people and don't even know it. That's what happened to that stupid man in that movie, right? Got lost somewhere in Alaska or one of those other states covered in snow, died, and he was only a few hours from civilisation the whole time.

Drake thinks back to the last time he checked his watch. By habit, he checks his watch now. Apparently it can withstand up to however many metres below water level, but Drake is no diver. He hasn't ever expected to use that particular quirk. With some surprise he notes that it's working. He's not sure why he hasn't looked at it before. It reads three am, and he realises it still sits in Los Angeles time. He should probably be more tired than he is. He is tired, exhausted in fact, but there's some kind of desperate adrenaline that hopes the trees will give way to an airport, a road, or some kind of transport method that will get him out of this before his father realises he's missing.

He realises he's asking more questions than he normally would, and initially he chastises himself. It's better to avoid being heard, to keep one's thoughts to oneself, and to leave the world ignorant of your lack of knowledge. Surely, though, this is a different situation. If there isn't anybody else on the island, if he and this strange Englishman are the only survivors, then they have to talk. He wonders if the guy has a razor with him. Drake hates beards.

"What's the A?"

"A is for Alfred. That's my name," Alfred slashes another 'A', then crouches to examine some of the plants they're walking past. These look green, for lack of a better word; he breaks one open and finds gooey sap inside. With his mouth as dry as it is now, it's tempted to lick it up. But plant sap might be poisonous; it's best to wait and try to find the water source. They have two days, maybe. An awful time limit.

"What's your name?" Might as well ask. He'd rather not have the kid die on him and realise he didn't know what to call him. "I've just been calling you Wilson in my head."

Drake's eyes jump to him in a way that suggests Alfred is a trifle strange, and doesn't comment immediately. Wilson isn't a bad name, he notes, but he doesn't say so. It might stick, and then where will he be? "Drake." An Englishman named Alfred seems remarkably cliched. Drake doesn't say that either. All of these things he isn't saying start to collectively pound into his temples, but that might just be the lack of water. He wonders why someone hasn't invented the large scale purification of the world's oceans. Maybe they have.

"You good with plants?" The question should never have been asked, Drake realised, the moment he's uttered it. Anyone who is uncertain about the identity of palm trees is no plant expert. He shakes his head to negate it, instead moving on and fighting through a particularly overgrown crop of foliage. He's sweating rivers inside his suit, but with nothing else to wear there's no likelihood of taking it off.

"Not particularly, but I used to camp. Only in and around London, mind, so I've got no idea what these are. But plants need water, I know that much. And sap is moisture, so these plants must have sucked up some water from somewhere..." he trails off, unsure if his logic is sound.

He shrugs and pulls off his jumper, wrapping it around one of his now bare upper arms to protect himself from sharp twigs. With his jumpered arm, he pushes through the increasingly dense forest. Jungle? What is the difference? "If we can't find running water, we're going to have to find more cloth and pray for rain."

The rucksack makes a crunch as Drake dumps it to the ground. He opens the zip and checks inside. He's not a heavy packer, so barring the technology, there isn't a great deal to be found. Into the empty front pocket he stows the twigs he's picked up, and then he shoulders the bag again. Sensibly he knows that it has to be running water before they can drink it. Anything can be lurking in the depths of a pond; disease, piranhas. He's not sure whether piranhas exist in this part of the world, but he's not exactly hurrying to stick his foot in a deep pool until he is. He does want to get clean, though, and water doesn't have to be running for that. His thoughts distract him, and he stumbles, catching himself against the rough bark of a tree. It scrapes his palm, but he doesn't say anything. After their day, a spot or two of grazed skin is nothing to worry about.

"Where can you camp in London?" he asks, dubiously. Does Alfred mean he slept on the streets for a while? London doesn't exactly seem like the place that invites happy campers.

"There are parks, small sites. It's been close to twenty years since I last went, though."

It's calming to chat nonchalantly while doing something as strange as forcing his way through a jungle on a deserted island looking for water. Pausing briefly to mark another 'A', he holds up a hand. "Do you hear something?"

Because he certainly does. It's soft, for certain, and quiet, but that's definitely a trickling sound.

Silenced, Drake lifts his head, listening as intently as he can. In this, he can consider himself skilled, for he's spent the better part of fifteen years listening out for the sound of happy feet, disapproving feet, or angry feet. Now he listens for the sound of water, hoping, and approving.

It's off to the left, and he turns. There's little reason to go charging off, if it's the only water source on the island, anything might be there. Instead, he walks carefully forward, taking the lead for the first time in their foray, and parts this branch, and that fern, until they break into a small clearing.

He can't see anything immediately, but beneath a netted web of fern leaves, he spots a glimpse of reflective light. "There," he says. "Over there."

Alfred follows behind, his heart nearly stopping when Wilson- Drake identifies the source of the trickling sound. Alright, he's watched documentaries. He knows that animals always gather by the watering hole. But there are conflicting thoughts running through his head too. Wasn't it on the pacific islands that people found things like dodos running rampant because there weren't any predators? Or was this sort of island the environment for giant dragon-lizards and jaguars?

Knife first, he ventures forwards to the edge of the small river. When he can't see any dark shapes lurking, or spot any traces of animal, he bends down and lets the cool, clear liquid flow over his fingers.

"We should set up a fire here, see if we can't build a shelter," he says, voice slightly doubtful. "If there are other survivors, we should let them know there's water here."

"Building a shelter might prove interesting with only a pocket knife," Drake says, his voice dry where Alfred's voices uncertainty. The fire, though, is a good idea, and he looks for a safe point to put down his backpack. Onto a rock it goes, and Drake's attention turns to the twigs he's been storing as they walk, and tries to think about things logically. He has no recollection of where he should build a fire, and there doesn't seem to be any immediate place that seems safe - he doesn't want to burn down the whole damn forest, but neither does he want to immediately brand himself an idiot by asking useless questions.

His eyes fall upon an area that seems easier to clear, and Drake walks over to it, kicking dubiously at a few sods of turf. "Here?"

"Hm," is Alfred's only response. It's a challenge, isn't it? But the boy's right, they'll need a hatchet to get it done properly. Instead of voicing his thoughts, he kicks a near-by tree, checking its sturdiness. "Hm."

"That'll do," Alfred gathers some rocks and settles on his knee beside the area Drake identifies. He sets them down and removes a shoelace, before finding another, bendier twig from one of the trees and sawing it off with the penknife. "I'll get the fire started here. You, do me a favour and write- I don't know, 'follow the A' or something on the beach, where people will see it. Something to let people know where we are. Hopefully, Ray Mears will have washed up."

Hopefully. "We'll have warmth and water at the very least."

As Alfred takes charge of the fire, some form of relief strikes Drake. He doesn't have to attempt to perform scout duties he'd never mastered originally, but he's still doing something. He leaves his bag where it is, twigs included, but takes one thick, pointier piece with him to use as a utensil in the sand.

Before he leaves, he ducks by the river to grab a few handfuls of water. Enough waiting, if it's poisonous, he dies, if it isn't he dies from thirst anyway. C'est la vie.

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game start!

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