Daniel hasn't slept since yesterday morning. He canceled his classes for the entire week and fled into the jungle with his backpack (and that shirt, stuffed inside), found a secluded spot far, far North from the Compound, grabbed his journal, and started writing
( ... )
That Marcus. Such a charmer. Too bad he turned out to be an absolute prat, running off with that medical student, kicking her to the curb.
But that was in the future. In the present, he was sitting across from her at a table in some fancy Italian restaurant (How typical, she had joked, informing him of her chosen career and suggesting that Indian was the far more sensible cuisine choice for those who lacked imagination). He had just discreetly pointed out the hideous yellow dress worn by the woman seated four tables away, and try as she might follow in his lead, she had laughed, loudly.
"Oh, I hope she didn't notice me--" she said in a voice she hoped the woman couldn't hear.
It doesn't take Dan long to start frantically hurrying in the direction of her voice. It's quieter now, but there isn't any other noise out here, save for the brush moving under his feet -
She's in that house that doesn't exist, on the Island that doesn't exist, with the man who isn't her father. They're sitting at a table like a pair of conspirators -- the plot, a piece of chocolate.
"Oh, daddy, you know I'm not supposed to have this!"
[She sounds as childish in the jungle as she is in her memory; only a little girl, back when her world was imaginary.]
He grins mischievously and tells her he's quite familiar with mommy's rules.
With cold golden eyes he watched, watched the female's lips move and her blood flow. A silent guardian, he watched and waited for his human to catch up. He'd scented blood and an odd scent, slipped through the thick foliage to see what had happened, leaving Edmund to trail behind on less stealthy, human feet.
But catch up he did, boots crunching through undergrowth to make Honour's sharp ears perk and turn, and he understood why Honour had dashed away so.
"I say," Edmund breathed, kneeling at the girl's side and offering her his handkerchief. "Are you alright? What's happened?"
She's not aware the boy is there, for she presently is not in the jungle. She's reading aloud passages of a book -- some silly, trashy young adult novel about a girl playing tricks in school.
It doesn't sound like great literature, that's for sure.
"What's that?" he asked. He understood very well the words she was saying, but he hadn't the slightest idea what she meant by them. "Are you talking about you?"
She hadn't flinched or pulled away, didn't seem to even notice he was there, so Edmund reached forward to wipe away from the blood from her nose. "Are you hurt?"
Alex hears the voice murmuring just at the lower edge of her awareness; for a moment, still a bit shell-shocked from the last few weeks, she can't help assuming she's hearing things again, until she turns her head and sees the red hair glinting in the sun.
"Oh, Christ." She hurries the last few steps, dropping to her knees beside the girl in the underbrush.
The part of her mind that hasn't been used in far too long is starting to click over: clothing intact, no blood anywhere but the upper lip, no visible injuries -- cross off assault? -- visibly disoriented -- fever? head trauma? heat stroke? how long has she been out here?
"All right," she says firmly, pulling together every ounce of DI left in her. "You're going to be all right. Can you hear me? If you can, I need you to concentrate for me."
She can't hear her. She's too busy arguing with her friend about the merits of "old" music versus new. Charlotte could never get in to the stuff her generation enjoyed. "It lacks imagination," she says, her voice coming out clear in the jungle. "It's so...whiny. Geronimo Jackson's much better than anything you've got in there."
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But that was in the future. In the present, he was sitting across from her at a table in some fancy Italian restaurant (How typical, she had joked, informing him of her chosen career and suggesting that Indian was the far more sensible cuisine choice for those who lacked imagination). He had just discreetly pointed out the hideous yellow dress worn by the woman seated four tables away, and try as she might follow in his lead, she had laughed, loudly.
"Oh, I hope she didn't notice me--" she said in a voice she hoped the woman couldn't hear.
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"Charlotte! Where are you? Can you hear me?"
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She's in that house that doesn't exist, on the Island that doesn't exist, with the man who isn't her father. They're sitting at a table like a pair of conspirators -- the plot, a piece of chocolate.
"Oh, daddy, you know I'm not supposed to have this!"
[She sounds as childish in the jungle as she is in her memory; only a little girl, back when her world was imaginary.]
He grins mischievously and tells her he's quite familiar with mommy's rules.
Reply
With cold golden eyes he watched, watched the female's lips move and her blood flow. A silent guardian, he watched and waited for his human to catch up. He'd scented blood and an odd scent, slipped through the thick foliage to see what had happened, leaving Edmund to trail behind on less stealthy, human feet.
But catch up he did, boots crunching through undergrowth to make Honour's sharp ears perk and turn, and he understood why Honour had dashed away so.
"I say," Edmund breathed, kneeling at the girl's side and offering her his handkerchief. "Are you alright? What's happened?"
Reply
It doesn't sound like great literature, that's for sure.
Reply
She hadn't flinched or pulled away, didn't seem to even notice he was there, so Edmund reached forward to wipe away from the blood from her nose. "Are you hurt?"
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"Oh, Christ." She hurries the last few steps, dropping to her knees beside the girl in the underbrush.
The part of her mind that hasn't been used in far too long is starting to click over: clothing intact, no blood anywhere but the upper lip, no visible injuries -- cross off assault? -- visibly disoriented -- fever? head trauma? heat stroke? how long has she been out here?
"All right," she says firmly, pulling together every ounce of DI left in her. "You're going to be all right. Can you hear me? If you can, I need you to concentrate for me."
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