Lost
After this
Sand. Water. Warm.
Those are the first things Will notices when he starts to come to. He's laying on a beach, sand gritting beneath his cheek while the Caribbean churns against the coast nearby. He can smell the salt off the water, though something's not quite right about it. It smells... different somehow.
He opens his eyes, squinting against the bright sun, then starts to push himself to his knees. How did he get from that musty antique shop to the beach? As he sits up, the sun glints off of something in the sand below, a quick flash of gold. He reaches down to dig it out and finds it's the ring he'd been reaching for when he blacked out.
It looks like he'd stolen it after all. So much for trying to be more lawful. He slips it into his pocket, brushes the sand from his clothes, then gets to his feet. His head is pounding, the rhythm almost matching the steady surge of the surf behind him. Surf. Surf? Port Royal never has surf that loud.
He turns to look at the water, that feeling of displacement worsening with each passing moment. Something's definitely not right. That's not the Caribbean, which means he's not in Jamaica anymore. And if he's not in Jamiaca, then where the hell is he?
There's only one way to find out, so he starts walking.
Again, to be continued...
Sand. Water. Warm.
Those are the first things Will notices when he starts to come to. He's laying on a beach, sand gritting beneath his cheek while the Caribbean churns against the coast nearby. He can smell the salt off the water, though something's not quite right about it. It smells... different somehow.
He opens his eyes, squinting against the bright sun, then starts to push himself to his knees. How did he get from that musty antique shop to the beach? As he sits up, the sun glints off of something in the sand below, a quick flash of gold. He reaches down to dig it out and finds it's the ring he'd been reaching for when he blacked out.
It looks like he'd stolen it after all. So much for trying to be more lawful. He slips it into his pocket, brushes the sand from his clothes, then gets to his feet. His head is pounding, the rhythm almost matching the steady surge of the surf behind him. Surf. Surf? Port Royal never has surf that loud.
He turns to look at the water, that feeling of displacement worsening with each passing moment. Something's definitely not right. That's not the Caribbean, which means he's not in Jamaica anymore. And if he's not in Jamiaca, then where the hell is he?
There's only one way to find out, so he starts walking.
Again, to be continued...