Will stopped on his way along the path, blinking in surprise at the sight of the man--and his luggage. "Hullo. You must be new," he commented with a faint smile. He hadn't greeted a new arrival in a while, but it wasn't the sort of thing one forgot how to do. "I'm Will Stanton."
The champagne had to have been spiked with something; it was the only explanation for the fact that Chuck was now apparently standing in the middle of a grade-school style playground, surrounded by palm trees and the distinct lack of an airport - or anything that looked even remotely like civilization, for that matter.
Chuck stared at the kid who had just walked up and introduced himself. "You know, it's not that I have a problem with hallucinogens in principle," he said, "but since all this is in my head, shouldn't you be female? And preferably blonde?"
"Er." Will was rather taken aback by the words, but he gathered himself quickly. "Actually, it's not all in your head, I'm afraid. I know it's difficult to believe, but you're on an island. There are people here from many times and many worlds, and well...you can't get home." That was always the part he hated telling most. "But it's not a bad place, really. There are friendly people here, and perhaps even someone you know."
Chuck chose to ignore the first- lunacy was beneath his notice - and scoffed at the second. "I highly doubt that," he said. He couldn't think of a single person he knew - knew voluntarily, that was, Humphreys didn't count - who'd be caught dead here. And neither would he, if he had anything to say about it. "Did my father have something to do with this?" He should have seen it coming, with all that talk about how Europe would "change him". Bart wouldn't have left well enough alone.
As far as days go, this one actually has been kind of good. Her hair's looking really cute, her curls not out of control due to humidity or anything and sure she's kind of dressed like Mary Ann from Gilligan's Island, but it's cute. In that retro-chic Gidget sort of way.
She's even smiling. Somewhere, someone kind of important, like Dante or Yves St Laurent, just rolled over in pretentious grave. That was, until she stopped, kitten heeled in the middle of the Compound, slack-jawed and stared at the figure in the hallway, shaking her head. "Oh no, no way. You're not here. I must have eaten some bad pie."
Chuck had been leaning against the wall, bags dropped at his feet and jaw set in what someone less charitable might have called well on his way to a relatively epic sulk. He was deep enough into it that he didn't register the figure coming towards him until the disbelief-filled tones of Blair Waldorf reached his ears.
"Blair?" He was off the wall like a shot, not sure whether he should be relieved or apprehensive to see someone real.
Apparently her stomach had chosen that moment to start re-enacting Cirque-du-soleil. Figures. Still looking considerably shell-shocked she just stared, not certain that overly-perky chick in the kitchen hadn't slipped her hallucinogens that morning.
"You're...you're really here. Or is this just another side-effect of me going off Lexapro?" She laughed nervously, sounding hysterical as she touched the wall, pulling her hand back quickly as if she'd been burned. "Ew."
"It's either your hallucination or mine," Chuck said, looking her up and down. "Although if it was mine, you'd probably be wearing less." He didn't take as much pleasure in the line as he normally would have; he was suddenly inexplicably nervous. He didn't feel bad about what had happened before he'd left, but... well. There were bigger issues at hand.
"Is this something our parents set up?" It was about the only explanation making sense to him right now; they'd all landed in some sort of rehab camp for out of control kids. It would almost be poetic justice, considering what he and Blair had orchestrated for Georgina.
The day had been a nice one so far, but it seemed to Serena like that described all of them pretty well. They sort of blurred together after a while -- all afternoons on the beach or spent running around meeting people or coaxing new clothes from the box. It was quiet. Sometimes that suited her.
She hadn't had much luck with the clothes box today, so she was hoping the bookshelf might play it a little nicer when she wandered into the rec room. Instead she found Chuck Bass standing there. The sight of someone from home other than Blair was jarring. For a moment, she simply stared at him, wide-eyed. "Chuck," she said finally, the note of disapproval in her voice comfortingly familiar. "Of all the people this place could throw at me... Well, if you were looking for Ibiza, you're going to be very disappointed."
Chuck looked up from his cell phone, which he'd been turning on and off for the last half hour in the desperate hope of getting some sort of signal. He'd never thought he'd see the day that Serena's holier-than-thou tone might be the tiniest bit comforting.
"If you were waiting for me to throw myself at you, Serena, all you had to do was say the word." He felt more like himself already.
As much as Serena had come to like the island in the last few weeks, there was a weird relief that came with being sure it really was Chuck standing there. She'd never say so, but she smiled, just a little bit, even as she ignored what he'd said.
"There's no reception here," she said, one hand on her hip. "I've tried all over the place -- can't get out so much as a text message. How long have you been here?"
"Too long," he said with a roll of his eyes. "Or more specifically, about an hour." He flipped open his messenger bag and tossed his phone inside, disgusted, before slinging the whole thing to the floor petulantly. "As practical jokes go, this one isn't very funny. If my father got a sense of humor for a wedding present, he'd better be returning it sooner rather than later."
Even among ghastly flying insects, dangerous ultraviolet levels, sand in unmentionable places, and more boredom than you could successfully shake a wand at, Draco Malfoy still managed to perch himself on the smoothest log he could find near the compound, looking cool and confident and not at all the miserable little rat he felt like as of late.
"My condolences," he drawled, looking the stranger up and down. Overdressed in tastefully expensive looking attire and wearing a sneer that Draco found comfortingly familiar. The newcomer deserved a little sympathy, as far as he was concerned.
Chuck Bass may have been entirely out of his element, stranded on an entirely uncivilized island with no way off and no contact with his former life, but even so, he was still a Bass. In a place like this, he figured, social networking was probably key, and if there was one thing his father had taught him well, it was how to do just that.
The guy speaking to him looked about his age, had a British accent, and looked about as well-kempt as a castaway could be expected to. Seemed like as decent a prospect as he was going to come across anytime soon. "Thanks," he said, careful not to seem too invested. "Chuck Bass."
"Draco Malfoy." He'd never heard of the Bass family, and he might've been mildly disappointed that the other young man was clearly American, but those facts didn't phase him as much as that once would. Lord help him, but his standards had lowered, marginally, over the past months.
"You're going to wilt in all this heat," he observed, though it was clear he wasn't offering to actually do anything about this Chuck Bass's predicament.
With a name like that, the boy's parents must have had a rather distasteful flair for the dramatic, Chuck thought, though he refrained from sharing that opinion, due to the somewhat desperate nature of his circumstances.
"There are worse alternatives," he said, watching as a particularly tackily-dressed man walked past them on the path, all neon oranges and greens in a Hawaiian shirt and bermuda shorts. This must be hell, he decided. There was no other explanation.
Albie once taught me how it is a grifter does a cold read, all the sort o' jedi trick who-ha that allows for the good con man - say jus' for an example, a bloke like meself - to know everythin' he needs to know 'bout a mark. Now, some marks, well, they're a bit trickier to get a proper read on than others, yeah? Closed off or wha'ever, so you have to look extra carefully to get that little bit of information that'll allow you - or me, rather - to pull off a successful grift.
Then there's blokes like this one, who might as well be wearin' a dollar sign right 'round his neck. S'new arrival by the looks of it, since a Louis Vuitton suitcase's not 'xactly somethin' you'd find in that bloody box, now, issit? Nope, not a chance.
Looks like Christmas has gone and come early, son.
"You already been given the welcome speech, there, mate?" I ask from where I'm leanin' 'gainst the outside wall of the Compound.
"That's one way to put it," Chuck said dryly, not bothering to get up from the seat of the merry-go-round on which he was planted, his bags at his feet. "I'm not sure that a welcome is really what I needed. A stiff drink, maybe." He was sweating; his clothes weren't appropriate for the weather, but he thought that to give up and change might mean acceptance of the fact that this wouldn't all go away when whatever drugs he'd obviously taken wore off.
"Unfortunately," I say whilst pushin' meself off from the wall, "Cuba's not exactly accommodatin' in that area, yeah? 'Less you want to stomach the shite that's made 'ere, 'course. Me, well, rather be sober in that case."
Unlike the bloke 'ere, m'not sweatin', me. Got used to this weather long ago, been here for six months, after all, not that many people know that. Only been 'ere a couple o' weeks to everyone else. Anyway, m'not wearin' anythin' flash, just a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow and a decent pair o' jeans. I sit down next to the bloke and extend me 'and.
"Danny Blue, recently o' London til I showed up in the arse end of nowhere."
"Cuba?" Chuck asked, an eyebrow arched. Something told him that this place wasn't exactly on the map. He took the other man's hand a little reluctantly - he looked clean enough, he supposed. "Chuck Bass. New York."
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Chuck stared at the kid who had just walked up and introduced himself. "You know, it's not that I have a problem with hallucinogens in principle," he said, "but since all this is in my head, shouldn't you be female? And preferably blonde?"
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She's even smiling. Somewhere, someone kind of important, like Dante or Yves St Laurent, just rolled over in pretentious grave. That was, until she stopped, kitten heeled in the middle of the Compound, slack-jawed and stared at the figure in the hallway, shaking her head. "Oh no, no way. You're not here. I must have eaten some bad pie."
Reply
"Blair?" He was off the wall like a shot, not sure whether he should be relieved or apprehensive to see someone real.
Reply
"You're...you're really here. Or is this just another side-effect of me going off Lexapro?" She laughed nervously, sounding hysterical as she touched the wall, pulling her hand back quickly as if she'd been burned. "Ew."
Reply
"Is this something our parents set up?" It was about the only explanation making sense to him right now; they'd all landed in some sort of rehab camp for out of control kids. It would almost be poetic justice, considering what he and Blair had orchestrated for Georgina.
Reply
She hadn't had much luck with the clothes box today, so she was hoping the bookshelf might play it a little nicer when she wandered into the rec room. Instead she found Chuck Bass standing there. The sight of someone from home other than Blair was jarring. For a moment, she simply stared at him, wide-eyed. "Chuck," she said finally, the note of disapproval in her voice comfortingly familiar. "Of all the people this place could throw at me... Well, if you were looking for Ibiza, you're going to be very disappointed."
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"If you were waiting for me to throw myself at you, Serena, all you had to do was say the word." He felt more like himself already.
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"There's no reception here," she said, one hand on her hip. "I've tried all over the place -- can't get out so much as a text message. How long have you been here?"
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"My condolences," he drawled, looking the stranger up and down. Overdressed in tastefully expensive looking attire and wearing a sneer that Draco found comfortingly familiar. The newcomer deserved a little sympathy, as far as he was concerned.
Reply
The guy speaking to him looked about his age, had a British accent, and looked about as well-kempt as a castaway could be expected to. Seemed like as decent a prospect as he was going to come across anytime soon. "Thanks," he said, careful not to seem too invested. "Chuck Bass."
Reply
"You're going to wilt in all this heat," he observed, though it was clear he wasn't offering to actually do anything about this Chuck Bass's predicament.
Reply
"There are worse alternatives," he said, watching as a particularly tackily-dressed man walked past them on the path, all neon oranges and greens in a Hawaiian shirt and bermuda shorts. This must be hell, he decided. There was no other explanation.
Reply
Then there's blokes like this one, who might as well be wearin' a dollar sign right 'round his neck. S'new arrival by the looks of it, since a Louis Vuitton suitcase's not 'xactly somethin' you'd find in that bloody box, now, issit? Nope, not a chance.
Looks like Christmas has gone and come early, son.
"You already been given the welcome speech, there, mate?" I ask from where I'm leanin' 'gainst the outside wall of the Compound.
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Unlike the bloke 'ere, m'not sweatin', me. Got used to this weather long ago, been here for six months, after all, not that many people know that. Only been 'ere a couple o' weeks to everyone else. Anyway, m'not wearin' anythin' flash, just a white shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbow and a decent pair o' jeans. I sit down next to the bloke and extend me 'and.
"Danny Blue, recently o' London til I showed up in the arse end of nowhere."
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