(no subject)
Ben knows his island as well as he knows every crevice, every chip in the elementary paint that decorates Annie's doll. He knows where the jungles lead. He knows where is north, where is south, where is east and where is west without the aid of a compass. He knows what is buried beneath the dirt, beneath the sand, behind the leaves -- and he knows with certainty that he is no longer on his island.
When he became aware that the trees were not his trees, that the ground was not his ground, he stopped and turned, only to see that there was no sure path leading back to the pit where he had left John Locke for dead. Digging into his shoulder pack, he extracted his walkie talkie. Static answered him. He licked his lips -- a nervous tick -- and turned back in the direction he was headed. He walked ahead, keeping his mind clear, keeping his breathing steady.
(He would know if he were transported to another place. He liked to think he had control over those sorts of things. So why had he been transported by surprise? And how?)
Eventually, he walks out onto a beach. He stops, stares up at the sun, familiar only in the sense that any sun in any version of Earth would be familiar. The ocean beyond the beach, however -- that is unfamiliar.
He has no idea where he is.
He closes his eyes, taking several deep breaths, talking himself out of a panic. Yes, he is lost in another dimension, perhaps, but what good will he do for himself if his mind is in a state of alarm? He needs to know where he is. He needs to know how he got here. He needs to know how to get back. He can't do that if he's too busy being scared.
He opens his eyes. He walks further out onto the beach, then turns, walking towards what he hope is a person, or a camp of people, who can tell him where he is.