Nobody can tell ya, there's only one song worth singin'...
John Locke was on his feet before he knew just why.
Backgammon pieces scattered about the floor at his feet, the jukebox chugging to life, and the first strains of the song were so familiar, dragging up memories so powerful, for a moment he was sure he'd slipped into a dream. Not an hour later he was moving through the jungle, ears straining, and somewhere in the thick underbrush, far from the apparent safety of island civilization, he picked up the faint sounds of it again.
"Desmond?" he called hoarsely, listening to the rustle of leaves, jungle sounds, but no footsteps.
The record player, he came across first. Standing on a laquered table, the needle slidding into a skip just before he slipped his finger underneath and lifted it from the grooves. And Mama Cass was silent. There was an electrical cord and he followed it, weaving through the jungle with his knife tucked carefully in his palm. He broke through the underbrush into a clearing, the first blips from the computer reaching his ears.
"Dear God..."
The computer sat in the middle of the clearing, innocently enough, it's screen black with a single green icon blinking in the corner. Hanging from the trees, yards away, was the counter, clicking down toward zero. Reaching it's final moments. He moved without though, knife sheathed, fingers sliding along the familiar keyboard.
4 8 15 16 23 42 Execute.
The counter rolled back with a hiss and a gentle chug, numbers rolling back, resetting to 108.00. One hundred and eight minutes. No more. No less.
What are you doing, John?
... I'm saving the world.
"His words, not mine."
[[Locke has found his first item. It consists of this computer, this counter, and a record player. Find him anywhere around the central part of the island, away from the settlements. ST/LT always, always welcome. Oh, and the song is Mama Cass's Make Your Own Kind of Music.]]
Backgammon pieces scattered about the floor at his feet, the jukebox chugging to life, and the first strains of the song were so familiar, dragging up memories so powerful, for a moment he was sure he'd slipped into a dream. Not an hour later he was moving through the jungle, ears straining, and somewhere in the thick underbrush, far from the apparent safety of island civilization, he picked up the faint sounds of it again.
"Desmond?" he called hoarsely, listening to the rustle of leaves, jungle sounds, but no footsteps.
The record player, he came across first. Standing on a laquered table, the needle slidding into a skip just before he slipped his finger underneath and lifted it from the grooves. And Mama Cass was silent. There was an electrical cord and he followed it, weaving through the jungle with his knife tucked carefully in his palm. He broke through the underbrush into a clearing, the first blips from the computer reaching his ears.
"Dear God..."
The computer sat in the middle of the clearing, innocently enough, it's screen black with a single green icon blinking in the corner. Hanging from the trees, yards away, was the counter, clicking down toward zero. Reaching it's final moments. He moved without though, knife sheathed, fingers sliding along the familiar keyboard.
4 8 15 16 23 42 Execute.
The counter rolled back with a hiss and a gentle chug, numbers rolling back, resetting to 108.00. One hundred and eight minutes. No more. No less.
What are you doing, John?
... I'm saving the world.
"His words, not mine."
[[Locke has found his first item. It consists of this computer, this counter, and a record player. Find him anywhere around the central part of the island, away from the settlements. ST/LT always, always welcome. Oh, and the song is Mama Cass's Make Your Own Kind of Music.]]
