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Vincent is stumbling uselessly through the foliage, his carry-on still hanging from his shoulder, his damp wool jacket slung over the top of it. He's trying not to think too hard, too long about the situation, which is unusual and unfamiliar and distracts him from considering more practical things like marking his path as he fights his way through the greenery. He just needs some sort of makeshift shelter, some fresh water, and he'll be fine until rescue comes. Right? That's how it works, isn't it?
He hasn't seen anyone else yet, since leaving the plane, and he tries not to think too hard about that.
Instead he continues to walk, ignoring the heat and the mounting sense of despair in the back of his mind.
He hasn't seen anyone else yet, since leaving the plane, and he tries not to think too hard about that.
Instead he continues to walk, ignoring the heat and the mounting sense of despair in the back of his mind.